THE  MADIGANS 


THE   MADIGANS 


BY 


MIRIAM  MICHELSON 


AUTHOR  OF        IN  THE  BISHOP  S  CARRIAGE 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY  ORSON  LOWELL 


NEW   YORK 
THE   CENTURY   CO. 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published  October,  190k 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


CONTENTS 

PAQE 

CECILIA  THE  PHARISEE 3 

A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN 39 

A  MERRY,  MERRY  ZINGARA 79 

THE  SHUT-UPS 115 

THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE    ........  147 

THE  LAST  STRAW 189 

A  READY  LETTER- WRITER 219 

"  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN  " 265 

KATE  :  A  PRETENSE 297 

OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  331 


297318 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTKATIONS 


PAGE 

A  Few  of  Irene's  "  Fathers  ".......  Frontispiece 

"  That  settles  Number  10,"  said  Sissy,  grimly      ...  7 

Left  the  room  with  such  uncompromising  hauteur 

.  .  .  that  her  aunt  again  exploded 13 

"  Please,  Mr.  Garvan,"  she  said 17 

Some  of  the  Madigans 23 

The  Rest  of  the  Madigans 29 

Seizing  Sissy  in  his  arms,  he  bore  her  off  to  bed   .     .  35 

"  Play  it,  then,  you  mean  thing,"  she  cried,  .  .  .  "if 

it 's  going  to  do  you  any  good !  " 47 

"  Go  and  shake  hands  properly,  like  a  little  gentleman," 

bullied  Mrs.  Pemberton 53 

Of  the  design  and  construction  of  which  he  was  quite 

vain 63 

The  Belle  of  the  Afternoon 71 

She  was  pronounced  a  "  regular  little  love  "  by  the 

Misses  Bryne- Stivers 91 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  're  going  to  dance  in  them  "  .     .  95 

"  But  is  she  very  sick  ?  " 101 

vii 


viii        LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

She  glanced  up  the  incline  of  the  see-saw  to  the  height 
whence  Irene  looked  down 153 

"  I  want  you— come !  "  the  Indian  princess  announced .  163 

They  had  coasted  only  half  a  block 169 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  glare  at  me !  "  exclaimed  Bep      .     .  183 

A  train  meant  domesticity  and  dignity  to  Sissy.     In 
Split  it  bred  and  fostered  a  spirit  of  coquetry     .     .  223 

Stamping  ...  in  a  frenzy 229 

Madigan  banged  the  door  behind  him  as  he  fled    .     .  237 

"  Here  would  I  rest,"  she  chanted 253 

She  walked  a  step  or  two  with  him      ......  261 


THE  MADIGANS 


THE  MADIGANS 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE,. '.;>:: 

I,  CECILIA  MORGAN  MADIGAN,  being  of  sound  mind 
and  in  purfect  bodily  health,  and  residing  in  Vir 
ginia  City,  Nevada,  do  hereby  on  this  first  day  of 
April  solemnly  promise : 

1.  That  I  will  be  Number  1  this  next  month  at 
school. 

2.  That  I  will  be  pachient  with  Papa,  and  try  to 
stand  him. 

3.  That  I  will  set  Bep— yes,  and  Fom  too,  even 
if  she  is  Irene's  partner— a  good  example. 

4.  That  I  will  not  once  this  next  month  pinch 
Aunt  Anne's  sensative  plant— no  matter  what  she 
does  to  me. 

5.  That  I  will  dust  the  back  legs  of  the  piano  even 
when  Mrs.  Pemberton  isn't  expected. 

6.  That  I  will  help  Kate  controll  her  temper,  and 
not  mock  and  aggravate  her  when  she  sulks. 

7.  That  I  will  be  a  little  mother  to  Frank  and 
teach  her  to  grow  up  and  be  a  creddit  to  the  famly. 

8.  That  I  will  not  steal   candy  out   of  Kate's 


4  THE  MADIGANS 

pocket— without  first  begging  her  very  hard  to  give 
me  some. 

9.  That   I   will   practice   The   Gazelle   fathfully 
every  solatary  day.    And  give  up  reading  on  the  sly 
while  I  play  5-finger  exercises. 

10.  That  I  will  try  to  bear  with  Irene.     That  I 
wiir.do.'al.V;!  c'an  not  to  fight  with  her— but  she  is  a 
selfish  devvil  who  is  always  in  the  wrong. 

• :  ;,J4nd  jalli  this  1  solemnly  promise  myself  without 
being  coersed  in  any  way,  of  my  own  free  will,  with 
out  let  or  hidrance,  because  I  want  to  be  good. 

Cecilia  Morgan  Madigan  (called  Sissy), 

Aged  11  last  birthday. 

P.S.    And  I  feel  sure  I  can  do  it  all,  God  helping 
me,  except  Number  10— which  is  the  hardest. 


SISSY,  who  had  been  sitting  writing  only 
half  dressed,  folded  the  paper  reverently, 
put  it  to  her  lips  for  lack  of  a  seal,  and  then 
buttoned  it  firmly  inside  her  corset  waist. 

She  felt  so  virtuous  already  that  the  carry 
ing  out  of  her  intentions  seemed  really  super 
erogatory.  When  she  went  to  Irene  to  have  her 
button  her  dress  in  the  hack,  she  had  such  a  sen 
sation  of  holiness,  such  a  consciousness  of  a 
forbearing,  pure,  and  gentle  spirit,  that  her  sis- 


CECILIA   THE   PHAKISEE  5 

ter's  malicious  pretense  of  ignoring  her  pres 
ence  appeared  to  her  nothing  less  than  sacri 
lege. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  button  me,  Split?" 
she  demanded,  indignant  that  her  enemy,  whom 
she  was  going  to  treat  with  Christ-like  charity, 
should  successfully  try  her  temper  before  the 
ink  was  dry  on  her  own  promise  to  keep  the 
peace. 

"Ask  me  pretty, "  grinned  Split,  whose  nick 
name  honored  a  gymnastic  feat  which  no  other 
Madigan,  however  athletic,  could  accomplish 
half  so  successfully  as  the  second.  '  *  Say 
i please.'  " 

' '  I  won 't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  You  know 
you  've  got  to  do  it,  and  you  've  no  right  to 
expect  me  to  say  'please'  every  time.  You 
don't  do  it  yourself,  you  hateful  thing!" 

"  Why  don 't  you  cry  ?" 

"Because  I  won't  for  you— because  you  can't 
make  me— because— " 

"Because  you  are  crying  in  spite  of  yourself! 
Because  anybody  can  make  you  cry,  cry-baby ! ' ' 

Sissy's  hands  flew  up  to  her  breast.  It  was  a 
recognized  gesture  with  her,  a  physical  hold 
ing  of  herself  together  in  the  last  minute  that 
preceded  her  temperamental  flying  to  pieces. 

Split  retreated  cautiously,  clearing  the  deck 
herself  for  action. 


6  THE  MADIGANS 

But  no  first  gun  was  fired  in  that  engagement. 
A  crackling  of  the  document  hidden  over  the 
spot  where  she  thought  her  heart  was  came  like 
a  warning  note  to  Sissy.  She  struggled  against 
it  a  moment ;  then  her  hands  fell.  Meekly  she 
turned  her  back  upon  her  tormentor,  and  in  a 
voice  of  such  exquisite  holiness  as  to  be  almost 
unearthly,  she  said : 

"Split  dear,  will  you  please  button  me?" 

A  look  of  outraged  astonishment  at  the  un 
heard-of  endearment  came  over  Irene's  face. 
The  Madigans  regarded  demonstrative  affec 
tion  as  pure  affectation  at  its  best ;  at  its  worst 
it  was  little  short  of  indecent. 

"  ' Split  dear?'  "  mocked  Irene  as  soon  as 
she  recovered.  ' '  Yes,  dear.  Turn  around,  dear. 
Stand  straight,  dear.  Wait  a  minute,  dear—" 

Sissy  stood  in  silence,  biting  her  tongue  that 
she  might  not  speak.  She  was  so  occupied  with 
the  desire  to  keep  Number  10  of  her  compact 
with  herself  that  she  did  not  notice  how  long 
it  was  before  Irene  really  began  to  button  her 
waist.  She  did  note,  though,  that  she  began  at 
the  bottom,  a  proceeding  Split  fancied  merely 
because  it  drove  her  junior  nearly  frantic.  She 
buttoned  with  maddening  slowness  up  to  the 
middle,  when  she  capriciously  left  this  point 
and  recommenced  at  the  top. 


That  settles  Number  10,'  said  Sissy,  grimly 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE  9 

Mentally  Sissy  followed  the  operation.  It 
was  almost  complete  when  through  the  little 
gap  purposely  left  open  Split  deftly  intro 
duced  a  providentially  flattened  piece  of  ice 
from  the  window-sill,  giving  her  victim  a  little 
shake  that  sent  the  ice  slipping  smoothly  down 
her  squirming  body,  but  escaping  before  Sissy 
could  turn  and  rend  her. 

"That  settles  Number  10, "  said  Sissy, 
grimly,  to  herself,  while  she  danced  with  dis 
comfort.  "I  '11  kill  her  if  I  get  a  chance- 
that  's  what  I  '11  do.  I  '11  get  even,  or  my 
name  's  not  Sis  Madigan." 

She  hurried  back  into  her  room,  which  the 
twins  shared,  and  stood  in  damp  martyrdom 
while  Bessie's  butter-fingers  crept  with  miser 
able  slowness  up  and  down.  She  suffered  so 
from  Bessie's  ineptness  that,  despite  the  re 
quirements  of  Number  3  of  her  code,  she  tore 
herself  violently  from  her  and  turned  her  back 
imploringly  to  Florence.  But  Fom  was  a  par- 
tizan  of  Split's,  and  it  was  against  all  the 
ethics  of  Madigan  warfare  to  aid  and  comfort 
the  enemy.  When  Sissy,  chastened,  returned  to 
Bep  's  ministrations,  the  blonde  one  of  the  twins 
was  so  hurt  and  offended  by  the  implication  of 
awkwardness— a  point  upon  which  she  was  as 
vulnerable  as  she  was  sensitive— that  Sissy 


10  THE  MADIGANS 

slapped  them  both  before  she  went  at  last  for 
relief  to  Aunt  Anne. 

This  was  fatal,  as  she  knew  it  would  be. 

"I  shall  tell  your  father  about  Irene, "  her 
aunt  said,  looking  up  from  the  coffee  she  was 
sipping  as  she  lay  in  bed  reading  a  French  book. 
"But  it  's  just  as  well,  for  I  told  you  yesterday 
that  that  dress  was  too  dirty  to  wear  another 
day.  Change  it  now—  " 

"Oh,  Aunt  Anne,  it  's  late  already—" 

"You  '11  change  that  dress,  Sissy,  or  you 
won't  go  to  school." 

"I  won't!  It  's  too  late.  I  '11  be  late.  That 
means  one  credit  off,  and  this  month  I  'm  go 
ing — ':  A  remembrance  of  her  lofty  inten 
tions  came  suddenly  to  Sissy.  All  the  world 
seemed  bent  on  compelling  her  to  forswear 
herself. 

"Cecilia!"  commanded  Miss  Madigan. 

Sissy  stiffened. 

"You  've  disturbed  my  reading  enough  this 
morning.  If  you  say  another  word  I  '11—  " 

"Oh,  Aunt  Anne-" 

1 1  Go  over  to  the  wall,  Cecilia,  and  stand  with 
your  back  to  me  for  five  minutes. ' ' 

With  a  fiendish  light  in  her  eye— a  light  of 
such  desperate  satisfaction  as  betokened  one 
gladly  driven  to  commit  the  unforgivable— 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          11 

Sissy  moved  toward  the  sensitive-plant  in  the 
window. 

"Not  there!  That  poor  plant  seems  to  suf 
fer  sympathetically  with  your  badness.  Stand 
over  by  the  bureau." 

Sissy  obeyed.  Her  rage  at  being  made  ri 
diculous,  her  sense  of  outrage  that  a  perfection 
ist  like  herself  should  suffer  punishment,  added 
to  her  knowledge  of  the  flight  of  time  on  school 
mornings,  strangled  her  into  dumbness.  But 
she  clasped  the  paper  in  her  breast  as  a  drown 
ing  man  might  a  spar  from  the  wreck.  At  least 
Number  4  was  intact.  She  had  been  mercifully 
spared  the  fracture  of  this  one  of  her  self-made 
commandments. 

She  was  standing  with  her  nose  pressed 
firmly  against  the  green  wall-paper,  her  back 
laid  open  as  by  a  surgical  operation,  and  a 
towel,  which  her  aunt  had  forced  into  the  aper 
ture  for  drying  purposes,  dangling  down  be 
hind,  when  Kate,  passing  the  door  on  her  way 
to  breakfast,  glanced  in. 

Her  sputtering,  quickly  stifled  screech  of 
laughter  sent  Sissy  spinning  about  as  a  bull 
does  when  the  banderilla  is  planted  in  his  quiv 
ering  flesh.  She  looked  at  the  doorway ;  it  was 
empty,  but  she  heard  scurrying  footsteps  with 
out.  Kate  was  on  her  way  to  tell  the  others. 


12  THE  MADIGANS 

She  looked  at  Aunt  Anne.  That  severe  lady 
had  dropped  her  book  and,  seized  by  the  conta 
gion,  was  shaking  with  silent  laughter. 

Not  a  word  did  Sissy  say.  Her  expression 
of  disgust,— disgust  that  a  grown-up  should  be 
so  silly  as  to  see  something  funny  in  absolutely 
nothing ;  disgust  that  her  aunt  should  so  weaken 
the  effect  of  her  own  discipline,— reinforced  by 
the  green  smudge  on  her  nose,  rubbed  off  the 
wall-paper,  finished  Miss  Madigan.  The  lady 
no  longer  attempted  to  conceal  the  disgraceful 
fact  that  she  was  laughing.  She  gave  an  audi 
ble  gurgle,  and  began  to  wipe  the  tears  of  enjoy 
ment  from  her  eyes. 

In  that  moment  the  iron  entered  into  Sissy 
Madigan 's  soul.  She  turned  again  to  the  wall, 
and  taking  a  pin  which  had  fastened  the  bow  of 
ribbon  at  her  throat,  she  pricked  slowly  but  re 
lentlessly  in  the  loose  wall-paper  this  legend : 

AUNT  ANNE -PIG 

After  which  she  felt  relieved,  and,  the  five  min 
utes  being  up,  left  the  room  with  such  uncom 
promising  hauteur,  still  splashed  with  green 
on  the  nose,  still  split  open  down  the  back,  with 
the  towel's  fringe  dangling  in  dignity  behind, 
that  her  aunt  again  exploded. 


p 
cr? 

I 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          15 

The  fact  that  she  had  irretrievably  lost  one 
credit  through  tardiness  set  Sissy's  lips  in  a 
tight  line  of  determination  to  guard  jealously 
every  one  of  the  ninety-and-nine  left  to  her. 

At  recess  she  remained  at  her  desk  studying 
her  geography  with  an  intensity  of  purpose  that 
made  her  rivals'  hearts  quake.  She  sat  at  the 
teacher's  desk— lifted  to  this  almost  regal  emi 
nence  by  his  fondness  for  her  petulant  ways  as 
well  as  because  of  that  quality  of  leadership 
which  made  Sissy  her  fellows'  spokeswoman. 
Hers  was  the  privilege  of  using  the  master's 
pencils,  sharpened  to  a  fineness  that  made  neat 
ness  a  dissipation  instead  of  a  task.  It  was 
she,  of  course,  who  originated  the  decorative 
style  of  arithmetic-paper  much  in  vogue,  on 
which  each  example  was  penned  off  in  an  in- 
closure  fenced  by  alternating  vertical  and  hori 
zontal  double  hyphens. 

But  a  queer,  conscientious  sense  of  the  re 
sponsibilities  of  power  and  place  modified 
Sissy's  rapturous  delight  in  her  position,  so 
that  she  kept  it  despite  a  fiercely  jealous  class- 
spirit  developed  by  a  strict  credit-system,  by 
the  emulative  temper  which  the  rarefied  atmo 
sphere  of  the  little  mining  town  fostered,  and  by 
a  young  master  just  out  of  college  who  looked 
upon  his  teaching  as  a  temporary  adventure, 


16  THE  MADIGANS 

much  as  a  Japanese  gentleman  regards  domes 
tic  service. 

It  was  in  her  capacity  of  class  representative 
that  the  master  had  consulted  Sissy  upon  the 
limits  to  be  observed  in  the  forthcoming  public 
oral  examination  in  geography.  And  she  had 
enlightened  him  as  to  what  would  be  considered 
quite  "fair."  This  treaty,  into  which  she  en 
tered  with  the  seriousness  of  an  ambassador  to 
an  unfriendly  power  arranging  a  settlement  of 
a  disputed  question,  had  a  character  so  sacred 
in  her  eyes  that  its  violation  by  the  master  in 
the  course  of  the  afternoon  came  upon  her  like 
a  blow. 

"Cecilia  Madigan,"  asked  the  master,  "what 
is  the  highest  mountain  in  the  world!" 

Sissy  rose.  The  imposing  array  of  visitors 
in  school  faded  out  of  her  horizon.  All  she 
could  see  was  the  eyes  of  her  schoolmates 
turned  in  accusatory  horror  upon  her.  They 
suspected  her  of  betraying  them ;  of  using  her 
elevated  position  to  hand  down  untrustworthy 
information. 

"Please,  Mr.  Garvan,"  she  said  in  tones  more 
of  sorrow  than  of  anger,  skilfully  showing  her 
knowledge  of  the  answer  while  denying  his 
right  to  it,  "that  question  isn't  on  the  map  of 
Africa." 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          19 

A  flush  of  annoyance  mounted  to  the  young 
master's  forehead.  Out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye  Sissy  saw  the  preliminary  twitch  of  the  cor 
ners  of  his  lips  that  served  the  class  for  a 
danger-signal. 

"What  is  the  highest  mountain,  Cecilia?"  he 
repeated  sternly. 

Sissy  stood  a  moment  looking  at  him.  All 
that  she  might  not  say— her  contempt  for 
pledge-breakers,  her  shocked  hero-worship  now 
forever  a  thing  of  the  past,  her  outraged  school- 
girPs  affection— she  shot  straight  at  the  master 
from  her  angry  eyes. 

Then  she  sat  down. 

1  i  I  don 't  know, ' '  she  said. 

He  looked  up  from  his  book,  incredulous. 
Ten  credits  out  of  one  hundred  gone  at  one  fell 
swoop— ten  of  Sissy  Madigan's  credits,  for 
which  she  fought  so  gallantly  and  which  she 
cherished  so  jealously  when  she  once  had  them 
in  her  possession. 

"I— don't— know,"  repeated  Sissy,  disdain 
fully. 

The  master  passed  the  question.  But  as  he 
put  it  to  the  next  girl,  Sissy  put  another  ques 
tion,  with  her  eyes,  to  the  same  girl. 

"Are  you  a  scab?"  her  steady  gaze  chal 
lenged.  "Are  you  going  to  benefit  by  what  a 


20  THE  MADIGANS 

mate  suffers  for  principle's  sake?  Are  you  a 
coward  who  does  n  't  dare  to  stand  up  for  your 
class?  And— do  you  know  what  you  '11  get 
from  me  if  you  are  ? ' ' 

"I— don't— know,"  faltered  the  girl. 

A  glory  of  triumph  shot  over  Sissy's  face. 
It  leaped  like  a  sunrise  from  peak  to  peak  in  a 
mountain-range  of  obstinacy.  "I  don't  know" 
-"I  don't  know"— "I  don't  know  "-the 
shibboleth  of  the  strikers'  cause  went  down 
the  line.  The  master  was  shamed  in  public  by 
the  banner  pupils  of  his  school.  He  writhed,  but 
he  put  the  question  steadily  to  every  girl  till  he 
came  to  Irene,  last  in  the  line. 

"What  is  the  highest  mountain  in  the 
world?"  he  asked,  perfunctorily  now. 

But,  to  his  amazement,  she  rose,  and,  looking 
out  of  the  window  up  to  the  mountain  to  the 
skirts  of  which  the  town  clung,  she  answered : 

"Mount  Davidson." 

Sissy's  savage  joy  followed  so  quickly  upon 
her  horror  at  her  own  sister's  defection  that 
the  closing  of  school  left  her  in  a  trembling 
storm  of  emotions.  In  the  dressing-room, 
where  the  girls  were  putting  on  their  hats,  she 
marched  up  to  Irene,  followed  by  her  wrathful 
adherents  and  feeling  like  an  avenging  Brutus. 

"You  're  a  sneak,  Split  Madigan!    You  're 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          21 

a  coward,  and— and  a  stupid  coward.  You 
don 't  know  enough  to  betray  your  class  and  get 
the  benefit  of  it,  but  you  >d  rather  be  mean  than 
get  credits,  anyway.  Nobody  can  count  on  you. 
Changeable  Silk,  that  's  what  you  are— chang 
ing  color  all  the  time,  never  standing  firm!  I 
hate  you!  Changeable  Silk!  Changeable 
Silk!" 

"Changeable  Silk!  Changeable  Silk!" 
chanted  her  following. 

The  little  dressing-room  rang  with  the  cry  of 
the  mob,  so  filled  with  significance  by  the  tone 
in  which  it  was  uttered  that  Irene  paled  and 
shrank. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  The  Madigans  never 
lacked  courage  long.  That  fierce  internecine 
strife  waged  by  the  clan  in  the  old  house  high 
on  the  side  of  the  hill  made  a  Madigan  quick 
and  resolute. 

"Stupid  yourself,  Sissy!  My  answer  made 
him  madder  than  your  not  answering. ' ' 

Sissy  looked  at  her  searchingly.  "But— did 
you—"  she  wavered. 

"Of  course  I  did!  Who  's  the  stupid  now? 
Do  you  s  'pose  I  did  n  't  know  it  was— ' ' 

"What?— what!"  Sissy  repeated  as  her  sis 
ter  hesitated. 

Irene  turned  up  her  nose  insultingly.    "I— 


22  THE  MADIGANS 

don't— know,"  she  mocked,  and  beat  a  suc 
cessful  retreat. 

Francis  Madigan  dined  in  a  long  room,  the 
only  man  at  a  table  with  seven  women  ranging 
in  years  from  four  to  forty- four.  The  accumu 
lation  of  girls  in  his  family  was  so  wanton  an 
outrage  upon  his  desires  that  he  rather  rejoiced 
in  the  completeness  of  the  infliction  as  an  unde 
niable  grievance. 

He  needed  a  grievance  as  a  shield  against 
which  others'  grievances  might  be  shattered. 
And  in  default  of  a  more  tangible  one,  he  cited 
his  heavily  be-daughtered  house.  It  was  at 
dinner-time  that  he  always  seemed  to  realize  the 
extent  of  his  disaster.  As  he  took  his  place  at 
the  head,  his  wrathful  eye  swept  from  Frances 
in  her  high  chair,  up  along  the  line,  past  the 
twins,  through  Cecilia,  Irene,  and  Kate,  till  it 
lighted  upon  Miss  Madigan 's  good-humored, 
placid  face.  His  sister 's  placidity  was  an  ever- 
present  offense  to  the  father  of  the  Madigans, 
—the  most  irascible  of  unsuccessful  men,— and 
the  snort  with  which  he  finished  the  inspection 
and  took  up  the  carving-knife  had  become  a 
classic  in  Madigan  annals  long  before  Sissy 
brought  down  the  house  at  the  age  of  eight  by 
imitating  it  one  evening  in  his  absence. 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          25 

But  to-night  a  most  painful  and  ostentatious 
respect  marked  Sissy's  manner  to  her  parent. 
She  stood  markedly,— while  the  others  scram 
bled  into  their  chairs  and  Wong,  the  Chinese 
servant,  sped  about  placing  everything  on  the 
table  at  once,— waiting  for  her  father  to  be 
seated. 

She  was  still  waiting  politely  when  his  eye 
lighted  upon  her.  "Sit  down,  Cecilia!7'  he 
roared;  "what  d'  ye  want,  gaping  there?" 

Sissy  sat  down.  So  holy  was  she  that  she  did 
not  resent  (openly)  the  low,  delighted  giggle 
Irene  gave.  She  began  to  be  politely  attentive 
to  Dusie,  her  father's  pet  canary,  though  she 
loathed  the  spoiled  little  thing  that  hopped 
about  the  table  helping  itself. 

Madigan  had  a  way  of  telling  himself,  in  his 
rare  moments  of  introspection,  that  the  tender 
ness  he  might  have  lavished  upon  a  son  he 
spent  upon  the  male  offspring  of  more  fortu 
nate  genera  than  man.  The  big  Newfoundland 
and  the  great  cat  came  to  meals  regularly. 
They  shared  Madigan 's  affection  with  the  birds 
(whose  cage,  big  as  a  dog's  house,  he  had  him 
self  nailed  up  against  the  side  of  the  wall),  that 
broke  into  a  maddening  din  of  song,  excited  by 
the  rival  clatter  of  young  Madigans  dining. 

Protected  by  this  shrill  symphony  from  the 


26  THE  MADIGANS 

sound  of  his  daughters'  voices,  Madigan  fed 
his  dog,  his  cat,  and  his  favorite  canary,  and 
with  his  head  upon  one  hand,  in  token  of  his 
abiding  disgust  with  the  human,  daughterful 
world,  ate  quickly  with  the  other. 

This  pose  was  the  signal  that  freed  the  femi 
nine  Madigan'  tongue.  Usually  they  all  broke 
into  conversation  at  once;  but  on  this  evening 
there  seemed  to  be  some  agreement  which  held 
them  mute  till  Irene  spoke. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you  be  so  patient  with 
papa,  Sissy,  '  '  she  said  gently. 

His  third  daughter  glanced  apprehensively 
at  Madigan.  But  her  father  had  retired  within 
his  shell,  and  nothing  but  a  cataclysm  could 
reach  him  there. 

"Why—  "  she  said,  puzzled,  "why—  I—" 

'  '  Promise  me  that  you  '11  try  to  stand  him,  '  ' 
urged  Split,  joyously. 

"And  that  you  '11  help  me  control  my  tem 
per,  and  not  mock  and  aggravate  me  when  I 
sulk,"  chanted  Kate. 

Sissy  dropped  her  knife  and  fork,  and  her 
hands  flew  to  her  bosom,  not  in  wrath,  but  in 
terror.  The  crackling  testament  was  gone  ! 

"Split!    You-" 


I  am  a  devil?"  grinned  Split. 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          27 

"And  set  us  a  good  example,  Sissy, "  piped 
the  twins. 

Sissy  gasped. 

"Be  a  yittle  nmwer  to  Fwank,"  lisped  the 
baby,  prompted  by  a  big  sister. 

"And  don't  steal  candy  out  of  my  pocket, 
will  yon,  Cecilia  Morgan  ?"  begged  her  oldest 
sister. 

"And-" 

Sissy  sprang  into  the  air,  as  though  lifted 
bodily  by  the  taunts  of  these  ungrateful  benefi 
ciaries  of  her  good  intentions. 

"Sit  down,  you  ox!"  came  in  thundering 
tones  from  the  head  of  the  table. 

When  one  was  called  an  ox  among  the  Madi- 
gans  the  culprit  invariably  subsided,  however 
the  epithet  might  tend  to  make  her  sisters  re 
joice.  But  Sissy  had  borne  too  much  in  that 
one  day— always  keeping  in  mind  the  perfect 
sanctity  with  which  she  had  begun  it. 

With  an  inarticulate  explanation  that  was  at 
once  a  sob,  a  complaint,  and  a  trembling  defi 
ance,  she  pushed  back  her  chair  and  fled  to  her 
room.  Here  she  sobbed  in  peace  and  plenty; 
sobbed  till  tears  became  a  luxury  to  be  pro 
duced  by  a  conscious  effort  of  the  will.  It  had 
always  been  a  grief  to  Sissy  that  she  could 
never  cry  enough.  Split,  now,  could  weep 


28  THE  MADIGANS 

vocally  and  by  the  hour,  but  all  too  soon  for 
Sissy  the  wells  of  her  own  sorrow  ran  dry. 

Yet  tears  had  ever  a  chastening  effect  upon 
the  third  of  the  Madigans.  In  due  time  she 
rose,  washed  her  face,  and  combed  back  her 
hair  and  braided  it  in  a  tight  plait  that  stuck 
out  at  an  aggressive  angle  on  the  side ;  unaided 
she  could  never  get  it  to  depend  properly  from 
the  middle.  This  heightened  the  feeling  of 
utter  peacefulness,  of  remorse  washed  clean, 
besides  putting  her  upon  such  a  spiritual  eleva 
tion  as  enabled  her  to  meet  her  world  with  com 
posure,  though  bitter  experience  told  her  how 
long  a  joke  lasted  among  the  Madigans. 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  at  last  beside  her  bed. 
No  Madigan  of  this  generation  had  been  taught 
to  pray,  an  aggressive  skepticism— the  tangent 
of  excessive  youthful  religiosity— having  made 
the  girls7  father  an  outspoken  foe  to  religious 
exercise.  But  to  Sissy's  emotional,  self-con 
scious  soul  the  necessity  for  worded  prayer 
came  quick  now  and  imperative. 

"0  Lord,"  she  pleaded  aloud,  "help  me  to 
keep  'em  all— even  Number  10— in  spite  of 
Split  and  the  devil.  Help—" 

She  heard  the  door  open  behind  her. 

With  a  bound  she  was  in  bed,  fully  dressed 
as  she  was ;  and  pulling  the  covers  tight  up  to 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          31 

her  neck,  she  waited,  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
fast  asleep. 

' '  You  little  fool ! ' '  said  Madigan,  with  a  hint 
of  laughter  in  his  heavy  voice  and  laying  a  not 
ungentle  hand  on  her  blazing  cheeks.  "D  'ye 
think  I  care  if  you  want  to  kneel  and  kotow  like 
other  idiots!  If  you  're  that  kind— and  I  sup 
pose  you  are,  being  a  woman— pray  and  be— 
blessed!" 

It  was  the  nearest  thing  to  a  paternal  benedic 
tion  that  had  ever  come  to  Sissy,  but  she  was  too 
wary  a  small  actress  to  be  moved  by  it  out  of 
her  role.  Nor  did  her  father  wait  to  note  the 
effect  of  his  words.  His  heavy  step  passed  on 
and  out  of  her  room  into  his  own,  and  the  door 
slammed  between  them. 

In  a  moment  Sissy  was  up;  in  another  mo 
ment  she  had  torn  off  her  clothes,  blown  out 
her  candle,  and  jumped  back  into  bed.  She  was 
almost  asleep  when  the  twins  came  in,  but  she 
feigned  the  deepest  of  slumbers  when  Bessie 
pushed  a  crackling  piece  of  paper  under  her 
pillow,  though  her  fingers  closed  greedily  about 
it  as  soon  as  the  room  was  quiet  again. 

She  knew  what  it  was— her  precious  compact 
with  herself,  that  loyal  little  Bep  had  recap 
tured  from  the  enemy.  She  lay  there,  lulled  by 
its  presence ;  and  slowly,  slowly  she  was  drop- 


32  THE  MADIGANS 

ping  off  into  real  slumber  when  a  sharply  ago 
nizing  thought,  an  inescapable  mental  pin-prick, 
roused  her.  It  was  Number  9.  She  had  not 
touched  the  piano  during  the  whole  of  that 
strenuous  day. 

She  withdrew  her  fingers  reproachfully  from 
the  insistent  reminder  of  virtuous  intention,  and 
resolutely  she  turned  her  back  on  it  and  tried  to 
pretend  herself  to  sleep.  But  every  broken  sec 
tion  of  her  treaty  had  a  voice,  and  above  them 
all  clamored  the  call  of  Number  9  that  it  was  not 
yet  too  late. 

When  Sissy  rose  wearily  at  last  and  draped 
the  Mexican  quilt  about  her,  the  house  was 
quiet.  All  youthful  Madigans  were  abed,  and 
the  older  ones  were  in  secure  seclusion. 

It  was  a  small  Saint  Cecilia,  with  a  short, 
stiff  braid  standing  out  from  one  side  of  her 
head,  and  utterly  without  musical  enthusiasm, 
that  sat  down  in  the  darkness  at  the  old  square 
piano.  "La  Gazelle'7  was  out  of  the  question, 
for  she  had  no  lamp  and  she  did  not  yet  know 
the  trills  and  runs  of  her  new  ' '  piece ' '  by  heart. 
But  the  five-finger  exercises  and  the  scales  that 
it  had  been  her  custom  to  run  over  slightingly 
while  she  read  from  a  paper  novel  by  the 
Duchess  open  in  front  of  her  music — this  much 
of  an  atonement  was  still  within  her  power. 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          33 

With  her  bare  foot  on  the  soft  pedal,  that 
none  might  hear  her,  Sissy  played.  It  was  dark 
and  very  quiet ;  the  hush-hush  of  the  throbbing 
mines  filled  the  night  and  stilled  it.  At  times 
her  heart  stood  still  for  fear  that  she  might  be 
discovered ;  at  other  times  the  longing  for  a  sen 
sational  uncovering  of  her  belated  and  extraor 
dinary  goodness  seized  her,  and  her  naked 
foot  slipped  from  the  cold  pedal  only  to  be 
hurriedly  replaced  before  the  jangle  of  the  keys 
could  escape. 

How  long  she  practised,  and  whether  she  re 
deemed  herself  and  Number  9,  Sissy  never 
knew,  for  she  fell  asleep  at  last  over  the  keys 
and  was  waked  by  a  hoarse  scream  and  a  wild 
cry  of  "  De  debbil !  De  debbil ! ' ' 

It  was  Wong,  the  Chinaman,  who  had  but  one 
name  for  all  things  supernatural.  Coming 
home  from  Chinatown,  he  was  passing  the  glass 
door  near  which  the  piano  stood  when  he  saw 
the  slender  figure  in  its  trailing  white  drapery 
bowed  over  the  keys. 

Sissy  looked  up,  sleep  still  bewildering  her, 
and  yet  awake  enough  to  be  fearful  of  conse 
quences.  She  tore  open  the  door  and  sped  after 
the  Chinaman  to  enlighten  him,  but  her  pur 
suit  only  confirmed  Wong's  conception  of  that 
mission  of  malice  which  is  devil's  work  on 


34  THE  MADIGANS 

earth.  A  terrified  howl  burst  from  him.  There 
was  only  one  being  on  earth  of  whom  he  stood 
in  greater  awe  than  the  thing  he  fancied  he  was 
fleeing  from ;  that  one,  logically,  must  be  greater 
than  It.  Taking  his  very  life  in  his  hand,  he 
doubled,  darted  past  the  shivering  Thing,  flew 
on  through  the  open  door,  and  made  straight 
for  the  master 's  room. 

For  Sissy  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
follow. 

"I  wanted  to  be  good,"  she  wailed,  un 
nerved,  when  Aunt  Anne  had  her  by  the 
shoulder  and  was  catechizing  her  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  nightgowned  multitude  of  excited 
Madigans. 

But  succor  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter. 
"Let  the  child  alone,  Anne,"  growled  Madigan, 
adjusting  the  segment  of  the  leg  of  woolen  un 
derwear  which  he  wore  for  a  nightcap;  and 
seizing  Sissy  in  his  arms,  he  bore  her  off  to 
bed. 

'  '  Papa 's  pet !  Papa  Js  baby ! ' '  mouthed  Irene, 
under  her  breath,  as  she  danced  tauntingly 
along  behind  his  back. 

And  Sissy,  outraged  in  all  the  dignity  of  her 
eleven  years  at  being  carried  like  a  child,  but 
unspeakably  happy  in  her  father's  favor,  looked 
over  his  shoulder  with  a  sheepish,  smiling, 


GO 


CECILIA   THE   PHARISEE          37 

sleepy  face,  murmuring,  "Sour  grapes,  Split, 
sour  grapes ! ' ' 

Afterward,  encouraged  by  the  darkness  and 
the  strangeness  of  being  laid  in  bed  from  her 
father 's  arms,  Sissy  held  him  a  moment  by  her 
side. 

"When  men  make  promises  on  paper  that 
they  can 't  keep,  father, ' '  she  whispered,  '  *  what 
do  they  do?" 

' '  Oh,  go  to  sleep,  child !  They  become  bank 
rupt,  I  suppose. ' ' 

"And— and  what  becomes  of  the  paper?" 

"What  do  you  know  or  care  about  such 
things!  Will  you  go  to  sleep  to-night?" 

"If  you  had  any  bankrupt's  paper,"  she 
pleaded,  catching  hold  of  his  hand  as  he  turned 
to  leave  her,  "what  would  you  do  with  it— 
please,  father!" 

"Why,  tear  it  up,  you  goose." 

With  a  jump,  Sissy  was  bolt  upright  in  bed 
and  holding  up  a  fluttering,  much-folded  sheet, 
an  almost  incredulous  joy  in  her  eager  voice. 

"Take  mine  and  pretend  I  was  bankrupt- 
please— oh,  please!" 

To  Madigan  all  children,  his  own  particu 
larly,  were  such  unaccountable  beings  that  a  va 
gary  more  or  less  could  not  more  hopelessly 
perplex  his  misunderstanding  of  them.  With 


38  THE  MADIGANS 

a  '  *  Tut !  tut ! "  of  impatience,  he  took  the  paper 
from  her  and  tore  it  twice  across. 

A  long  sigh  of  relief  came  from  Sissy  as  the 
bits  fluttered  to  the  floor.  "You  're  such  a  nice 
father ! ' '  she  murmured  happily,  and  fell  asleep, 
a  blissful  bankrupt  instead  of  a  Pharisee. 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN 

'QPLIT!    Split !" 

)O  The  morning  was  warm  and  young; 
Mount  Davidson's  side  was  golden  with  sun 
flowers.  On  the  long  front  piazza  Mr.  Madi- 
gan's  canaries,  in  their  mammoth  cage,  were 
like  to  burst  their  throats  for  joy  in  the  prom 
ise  of  summer.  Irene,  every  lithe  muscle 
a-play,  was  hanging  by  her  knees  on  the  swing 
ing-bar,  her  tawny  hair  sweeping  the  wood 
shed  floor  as  she  swung. 

"Split,  I  say!" 

The  tone  was  commanding— such  a  tone  as 
Sissy  dared  assume  only  on  Saturday  morn 
ings,  when  her  elder  sister's  necessities  de 
livered  Irene  the  Oppressor  into  her  hands. 

"Split  Madigan!" 

In  the  very  exhilaration  of  effort — the  use 
of  her  muscles  was  joy  to  her— Split  paused 
to  wish  that  the  house  might  fall  on  Sissy ;  that 
she  might  suddenly  become  dumb ;  that  the  key 

41 


42  THE  MADIGANS 

to  the  piano  might  be  lost— anything  that 
would  avert  her  own  impending  doom. 

But  none  of  these  things  happened;  they 
never  did  happen,  no  matter  how  passionately 
the  second  of  the  Madigans  longed  for  them 
on  the  last  day  of  the  week. 

"Split— you  know  very  well  you  hear  me," 
the  voice  cried,  coming  nearer. 

Split  burst  into  song.  She  was  a  merry, 
merry  Zingara,  she  declared  in  sweet,  strong 
cadence,  with  a  boisterous  chorus  of  tra-la-las 
that  rivaled  the  canaries ';  and  the  louder  she 
sang,  the  faster  she  swung,  so  that  she  was 
really  half  deaf  and  wholly  giddy  when  she 
felt  Sissy's  hand  on  her  ankle. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Sissy  1"  she  asked,  sweetly 
surprised,  peering  out  from  under  her  bushy 
mane. 

"Yes,  it  's  me,  Sissy!"  Cecilia's  small, 
round  face  was  stern.  "And  you  Ve  heard 
me  from  the  very  first,  and  if  you  want  any— 

"Shall  I  show  you  how  to  skin  the  cat, 
Sis?"  Irene  interrupted  hastily,  pulling  her 
self  up  with  a  jerk. 

But  Sissy  was  fat  and  had  none  of  her  sis 
ter's  wiry  agility.  She  declined;  her  mind 
was  attuned  to  other  issues  just  then,  and  her 
soul  was  a-quiver  with  malicious,  anticipatory 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        43 

glee;  for  this  was  the  day  of  Split's  music 
lesson,  and  her  teacher  was  none  other  than 
Sissy  herself. 

"  So,  if  you  want  it,"  the  younger  sister's 
voice  rose  threateningly,  ' '  you  Ve  got  to  come 


. . 


;Let  's  leave  it  till  the  afternoon."  Split's 
voice  came  from  somewhere  in  the  midst  of 
her  evolutions. 

* '  Will  you  come  ? ' '  demanded  Sissy  peremp 
torily.  "Once!" 

How  could  Split  answer?  Her  mouth 
was  tight  shut ;  she  was  pulling  herself  up  inch 
by  inch,  slowly,  slowly,  till  her  chin  should 
rest  upon  the  bar. 

"Will  you  come!     Twice!" 

Split's  face  was  purple,  and  there  was  an 
agonized  prayer  for  delay  in  her  eyes. 

"Will  you  come?  Third— and  la-ast— " 
Sissy  prolonged  the  note  quaveringly.  It  was 
not  her  intention  to  provoke  her  victim  be 
yond  endurance.  These  lessons,  which  gave 
her  the  whip-hand  over  the  doughty  and  in 
vincible  Split,  were  far  too  precious  to  her. 

"And  la-ast,"  she  repeated  inexorably. 

With  a  thud  Irene  dropped  to  the  floor. 
Leaving  all  her  light-heartedness  behind  in  the 
dusk  of  the  shed,  where  the  trapeze  still  swung, 


44  THE  MADIGANS 

she  followed,  a  sullen  captive;  while  Cecilia, 
gloating  like  the  despot  she  was,  led  the  way. 

4 'We  Ml  begin  with  the  piece, "  said  Spilt, 
eagerly,  seating  herself  before  the  piano. 

"No;  scales  and  exercises  first,"  declared 
Sissy,  firmly.  "Sit  farther  back,  Split,  and 
keep  your  wrist  up. " 

Split  moved  the  stool  a  millionth  of  an 
inch.  Why,  oh,  why  had  she  quarreled  with 
Professor  Trask?  If  some  one  had  only  told 
her  that  her  own  rebellion  would  mean  the  sub 
stitution  of  Cecilia  for  herself  as  his  pupil,  and 
.another  opportunity  for  that  apt  young  per 
fectionist  to  outrank  her  senior ! 

With  a  rattling  verve,  and  a  dime  on  each 
wrist,  which  Professor  Cecilia  had  placed 
there  to  effect  a  divorce  between  finger  and 
arm  movement,  Irene  attacked  her  scales  and 
exercises.  She  loathed  five-finger  exercises. 
So  did  the  talented  but  lazy  Sissy,  who  knew 
well  from  experience  what  torture  would  most 
try  her  victim's  soul.  Split  merely  wanted 
to  play  well,  to  outplay  Cecilia,  to  be  indepen 
dent  of  her  and  play  her  own  accompani 
ments. 

"Lift  your  fingers,  Split.  You  must  raise 
your  wrist, ' '  came  in  an  easy  tone  of  command. 
"  Repeat  that,  please.  Again.  There  goes  the 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PUKITAN        45 

dime  again !  If  you  'd  keep  your  wrist  steady, 
it  would  n  't  fall  off.  No ;  you  're  playing  alto 
gether  too  fast.  Slowly !  slow-ly !  Bad  finger 
ing!  bad  fingering!  Wretched!  Wait,  I  '11 
mark  it  for  you. ' ' 

With  her  nicely  pointed  long  pencil,  Sissy, 
a  martinet  for  technic,  assumed  all  the  airs  of 
her  own  professor  and  prepared  to  explain  the 
obvious. 

"No,  you  don't !"  Irene's  hand  shot  out 
from  the  keys  to  the  sheet-music,  scattering 
the  dimes ;  her  wide-spread  fingers  covered  the 
spot  Sissy  contemplated  adorning  with  pret 
tily  made  figures. 

"Don't  what?"  asked  Sissy. 

' '  Oh,  Miss  Innocence !  Don 't  be  so  affected, 
that  's  what!  Don't  put  on  so  many  airs! 
Don't  pretend  you  know  it  all,  Sis  Madigan!" 

"Why,  Split!  Do  you  s'pose  I  want  to 
put  the  fingering  down?" 

"You  do;  but  you  sha'n't!"  exclaimed 
Split,  savagely. 

1  i  All  I  want  to  do  is  to  help  you, ' '  said  Sissy, 
with  well-bred  forbearance. 

"Well,  don't  show  off,  then." 

Split  withdrew  her  hand,  and  the  lesson 
proceeded. 

"I  '11  play  your  piece  for  you  first,  Split, 


46  THE  MADIGANS 

to  show  you  how  it  ought  to  go."  Sissy  rose, 
her  calico  rustling,  to  change  the  professorial 
chair  for  the  stool  of  the  demonstrator. 

But  Split  sat  like  a  rock. 

" Professor  Trask  always  does,  Split." 

There  was  an  abused  note  in  Sissy's  voice 
that  deceived  her  sister.  In  the  perennial  game 
of  " bluff"  these  two  played,  each  was  alert 
to  detect  a  weakness  in  the  other;  and  Irene 
thought  she  had  found  one  now.  Ignoring  her 
professor,  she  placed  "In  Sweet  Dreams"  on 
the  rack  before  her,  and  gaily  and  loudly,  and 
very  badly,  began  to  play. 

Sissy  rose  majestically.  Her  correct  ear  was 
outraged,  her  small  mouth  was  shut  tight. 
Without  a  word  she  resigned  her  post  and 
made  for  the  door.  She  had  quite  reached  it 
before  Split  capitulated. 

"Play  it,  then,  you  mean  thing,"  she  cried, 
flouncing  off  the  stool,  "if  it  's  going  to  do  you 
any  good!" 

Sissy  hardened.  She  had  a  way  of  becom 
ing  adamant  on  rare  occasions  that  really 
struck  terror  to  Split's  facile  soul,  which  re 
sented  a  grudge  promptly  and  as  promptly 
forgot  all  about  it. 

"I  don't  care  to  play  it,"  said  Sissy,  loftily. 

"Well— I  want  you  to— now." 


•r 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        49 

"But  I  don't  want  to." 

'  *  Ain't  you  going  to  give  me  my  lesson, 
then?"  demanded  Split,  hoarsely.  "I  thought 
you  were  so  anxious  to  help  me ! " 

Sissy  was  mute.  Hers  was  a  strong  posi 
tion,  she  felt. 

"D'  ye  expect  me  to  get  down  on  my 
knees?"  Irene's  wrathful  voice  rose,  and  her 
unstable  temper  rocked  threateningly.  A  Mad- 
igan  would  willingly  have  been  flayed  alive 
rather  than  apologize  in  so  many  words. 

"I  don't  expect  anything  at  all,"  remarked 
Sissy,  coldly. 

"Well,  you  'd  better  expect,  for"— with  a 
swift  motion  that  cut  off  her  sister's  retreat 
and  put  her  own  back  to  the  door— "  you  '11 
p]ay  that  piece  before  you  go  out  of  this 
room." 

Without  a  word  Sissy  plumped  down  on  the 
floor.  Unconcernedly  she  pulled  her  jack- 
stones  out  of  her  pocket,  and  soon  their  regular 
click-clock  and  the  deft  thump  of  her  small, 
fat  fist  was  all  that  was  heard  in  the  room. 

It  always  seemed  to  Split  that  the  last  oc 
casion  of  a  disagreement  between  herself  and 
the  sister  nearest  to  her  in  years,  and  furthest 
from  her  in  temperament,  was  the  most  intol 
erable.  Never  in  her  life,  she  thought,  had  she 


50  THE  MADIGANS 

so  longed  to  murder  Sissy  as  at  this  minute. 
She— Split— had  no  time  to  waste  besieging 
the  impregnable  fortress  of  Sissy's  mulish- 
ness,  when  the  hardening  process  had  really 
set  in.  There  never  was  time  enough  on  Satur 
days  to  do  half  what  one  planned,  and  to-day 
was  the  day  of  Crosby  Pemberton's  party,  be 
sides. 

And  still  Split  remained  at  the  door,  and 
still  Sissy  played  jackstones.  Twice  there 
were  skirmishes  between  besieger  and  besieged 
—once  when  Split  crept  upon  Sissy  and,  with 
a  quick  thrust  of  her  slim,  straight  leg,  disar 
ranged  an  elaborate  scheme  for  "putting 
horses  in  the  stable, ' '  and  once  when  there  was 
a  strategic  sortie  from  Sissy,  which  failed  to 
catch  the  enemy  napping. 

It  was  Split  who  finally  yielded,  as,  with 
rage  in  her  heart,  she  had  known  from  the  very 
beginning  would  be  the  case.  But  no  Madigan 
ever  laid  down  her  arms  and  surrendered  for 
mally. 

Split  threw  open  the  door  with  a  bang. 
'  i  Go  out,  then,  miss !  go  out ! ' '  she  commanded. 

Calmly  and  skilfully  Sissy  finished  the 
"  devil  on  a  stump, "  the  last  of  those  orna 
mental  additions  the  complexities  of  which 
appeal  to  experts  in  the  game;  then  she  gath- 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        51 

ered  up  her  beloved  jackstones  and  got  to  her 
feet.  But  dignity  forbade  that  she  should 
leave  the  room  just  when  her  foe  had  ordered 
her  to  go.  So  she  ignored  the  invitation,  and 
going  to  the  piano,  sat  down  in  an  ostenta 
tiously  correct  position,  requiring  many  ad 
justments  and  readjustments,  and  began  to 
play  "The  Gazelle." 

She  played  prettily,  did  this  young  person, 
who  seemed  to  Split  specially  designed  to  in 
furiate  her.  And  to-day  she  played  "with  ex 
pression,"  soft-pedaling  and  lingering  upon 
certain  passages  in  a  way  which  the  Madigans 
considered  shameless. 

"Oh,  the  affected  thing!  Just  listen  to  her! 
How  she  does  put  on!"  sneered  Split  to  the 
world  at  large. 

Sissy's  lips  opened,  then  closed  tightly. 
She  had  almost  answered,  for  no  Madigan 
may  be  accused  of  sentimentality  and  live  un 
avenged.  Only  a  moment,  though,  was  she  at 
a  loss.  Then  calmly,  prettily,  she  glided  into 
Split's  own  particular  "piece."  She  knew 
this  would  draw  blood.  And  it  did. 

"You  sha'n't  play  it  now!  You  sha'n't!" 
Split  cried,  her  ungovernable  temper  aroused. 
She  dashed  impetuously  for  the  piano  and  tore 
the  sheet  of  music  from  the  rack. 


52  THE  MADIGANS 

It  was  the  thing  for  which  she  had  suffered 
so  many  lessons ;  for  which  she  had  sat  feeling 
like  a  mean-spirited  imbecile  with  Sissy's  im 
pertinent  finger  under  her  wrist,  while  all  out 
doors  was  calling  to  her;  for  which  she  had 
forborne  often  and  often  during  the  week,  only 
to  be  more  thoroughly  bullied  on  Saturdays. 
Yet  she  tore  it  across  and  recklessly  trampled 
it  underfoot.  Then  with  her  hands  over  her 
ears,  lest  she  hear  the  imperturbable  and  mad 
deningly  excellent  Sissy  play  '"  In  Sweet 
Dreams ' '  without  the  notes,  Split  fled. 

Sissy  played  on  till  the  very  last  bar;  she 
had  an  idea  that  Split  might  be  ambushed 
out  in  the  hall.  But  when  she  got  to  the  end 
and  heard  no  sound  from  there,  she  decided 
that  the  enemy  was  indeed  vanquished,  and  she 
rose  to  close  the  piano.  As  she  did  so  she  got 
a  view  of  an  elegantly  stout  and  very  upright 
lady  coming  up  the  front  steps,  with  a  fair, 
pale  boy  by  her  side. 

With  an  agility  commendable  in  one  so 
round,  Sissy  dropped  beneath  the  piano,  and, 
whipping  off  her  apron,  proceeded  to  wipe  the 
dust  from  the  back  legs  of  the  instrument  with 
it.  This  done,  she  rammed  the  apron  up  be 
tween  the  wall  and  the  piano,  and  was  seated, 
breathless,  but  with  a  bit  of  very  dirty  white 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        55 

embroidery  in  her  hands,  when  the  lady  en 
tered. 

"Ah,  Cecilia,  busy  as  usual, "  she  said  in  an 
important,  throaty  voice. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Pemberton,"  said  Sissy,  softly. 

"You  see,  Crosby,  that  even  a  child  may 
make  use  of  spare  moments.  Why  don't  you 
say  how-d'-ye-do  to  Cecilia?  Where  're  your 
manners?"  demanded  the  lady. 

"Yes,  >m.  How-do,  Sissy?"  asked  the  boy, 
uncomfortably.  He  was  a  very  prim  child, 
immaculately  dressed,  his  smooth  hair  plas 
tered  neatly  down  over  his  forehead;  and  he 
sat  bolt  upright  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  for 
he  knew  well  his  mother 's  views  about  lounging. 

"Go  and  shake  hands  properly,  like  a  little 
gentleman,"  bullied  Mrs.  Pemberton. 

With  a  sickly  smile  Crosby  walked  over  to 
Sissy  and  grasped  her  hand.  He  let  it  go  with 
an  "Ouch!"  that  made  Mrs.  Pemberton  turn 
majestically  and  glare  at  him. 

"I  'm  so  sorry  I  stuck  you,  Crosby,"  said 
Sissy,  softly,  smoothing  out  her  embroidery. 
"I  forgot  there  was  a  needle  in  my  work." 

Crosby  looked  at  her;  he  knew  just  how 
sorry  she  was. 

"The  thing  to  say,  Crosby,"  thundered  his 
mama,  "is,  'Not  at  all,  not  at  all,  Cecilia!'  " 


56  THE  MADIGANS 

"Not  at  all— not  at  all,  Cecilia, "  squeaked 
the  boy,  his  thin  voice  like  a  faint  echo  of  his 
mother's  heavy  contralto. 

Sissy  yearned  to  beat  him;  she  always  did. 
That  she  did  not  invariably  yield  to  her  desire 
to  express  her  resentment  of  so  awfully 
mothered  a  person,  was  due  solely  to  a  senti 
ment  of  chivalry:  he  was  so  weak  and  so  de 
voted  to  herself,  and  it  took  some  courage  to 
be  devoted  to  Sissy. 

"  I  'm  ashamed  of  my  son ! ' '  thundered  Mrs. 
Pemberton. 

Yes,  Sissy  knew  that  formula.  She  had 
heard  the  announcement  first  one  memorable 
day  at  school  when  she  led  a  revolt  against  the 
master— a  revolt  which  only  the  girls  of  her 
clique  were  expected  to  indorse.  But  Crosby, 
either  because  he  was  so  accustomed  to  playing 
with  girls  that  he  considered  himself  one  of 
them,  or  because  of  that  dogged  devotion 
which  even  so  stern  a  puritan  as  Sissy  could 
not  sufficiently  discourage,  had  taken  the  cue 
from  her  lips.  He,  too,  had  failed  publicly  and 
vicariously,  in  the  very  presence  of  his  lion- 
hearted,  bull-voiced  mother,  and  sat  a  white- 
faced  criminal  awaiting  execution,  when  Mrs. 
Pemberton,  rising  in  her  voluminous  black 
silk  skirts,  like  an  outraged  and  peppery  hen, 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        57 

stood  a  moment  speechless  with  wrath,  and 
then  broke  forth  with  her  denunciation  before 
the  whole  school,  visitors  and  all.  "Mr.  Gar- 
van,  "  she  had  exclaimed  in  a  deep  voice  all 
a-tremble,  "I  am  ashamed  of  my  son!"  and 
sailed  majestically  from  the  room.  Crosby's 
action  had  really  touched  Sissy  at  the  time, 
though,  like  the  diplomat  she  was,  she  had 
promptly  disowned  it. 

But  to-day  Mrs.  Pemberton's  shame  did  not 
too  much  affect  her  offspring,  who  sat,  not 
quite  so  upright  now,  squeezing  the  blood 
from  the  finger  that  Sissy's  needle  had 
pricked. 

"Let  me  look  at  your  embroidery,  Cecilia,'7 
said  the  lady,  patronizingly. 

Sissy  rose  and  brought  it  to  her.  Before 
Crosby  she  tried  not  to  show  it,  but  this  little 
Madigan  was  really  suffering  in  her  perfect 
soul:  she  embroidered  so  badly,  and  knew  it 
so  well. 

"H'm!"  Mrs.  Pemberton  drew  off  her 
glove.  "Make  your  stitches  even,  and  keep 
your  work  clean— like  this— like  this— see!" 

Sissy  saw.  Under  the  firm,  big,  white  hand 
the  strawberry  leaves  and  blossoms  sprang  up 
and  flourished.  Mrs.  Pemberton  loved  to  em 
broider;  her  voice  was  almost  gentle  when  she 


58  THE  MADIGANS 

painted  on  linen  with  her  needle,  and  then  only 
did  she  forget  to  bully  her  boy. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  play  for  us,  Cecilia,  if  I 
do  a  bit  of  your  work  for  you?" 

Sissy  knew  it  was  coming.  Mrs.  Pemberton 
always  asked  her  to  play,  and  playing  for  com 
pany  was  pure  show-off  from  a  Madigan  point 
of  view.  Split  would  hear  and  taunt  her  with 
it  later,  she  knew.  But  though  she  scorned  the 
servile  and  down-trodden  Crosby,  Sissy,  no 
more  than  he,  dared  disobey  that  grenadier, 
his  mother.  She  took  her  seat  at  the  piano, 
opened. a  Beethoven  that  Mrs.  Pemberton  had 
given  her  the  last  Christmas,  under  the  im 
pression  that  she  was  fostering  a  taste  for  the 
classical,  and,  with  a  revengeful  little  hand 
that  couldn't  reach  the  octaves,  she  began  to 
murder  the  "Funeral  March." 

Just  as  the  performer  let  her  hands  fall 
upon  the  last  somber  chord  (her  puritanical 
soul  enjoying  the  double  dissipation  of  pre 
tending  to  herself  while  she  afflicted  others), 
she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  mirror  over  the  piano 
and  saw  Irene  out  in  the  hall.  In  the  mirror 
their  eyes  met,  and  the  mockery  in  Irene's 
was  unmistakable  as  Sissy  rose,  agitated, 
caught  in  the  very  act  of  showing  off,  con 
victed  of  being  affected. 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        59 

"Very  pretty;  very  pretty,  indeed !"  said 
Mrs.  Pemberton,  absent-mindedly.  ' '  Now  play 
another  little  waltz. " 

' '  Aunt  Anne  says,  Mrs.  Pemberton, ' '  put  in 
Irene,  entering,  ' '  will  you  come  to  her  room  ? ' ' 

Mrs.  Pemberton  rose,  her  deft  hands  still 
calling  forth  the  perfection  of  fruit  from  the 
stubborn  linen  soil  upon  which  Sissy  could 
make  nothing  grow,  and  sailed  across  the  hall. 
Crosby  immediately  jumped  from  his  chair. 

"I  say,  Sissy,"  he  cried,  "I  know  an  awful 
swell  way  to  cut  paper-doll  dresses." 

Sissy  looked  at  him.  For  all  her  sins  (and 
in  a  hidden  corner  of  her  heart  that  she  rarely 
looked  into,  she  knew  herself  for  the  hypocrite 
she  was,  despite  all  her  self-righteous  pre 
tense)  this  girl-boy 's  devotion  was  her  punish 
ment.  She  did  not  envy  Split  her  successes; 
in  fact,  she  often  disapproved  the  methods  by 
which  they  were  attained.  Her  pride  would 
permit  her  neither  to  make  such  conquests,  nor 
to  enjoy  them  when  they  were  made;  but  she 
cursed  her  fate  that  Crosby  Pemberton  had 
fallen  to  her  share.  For  the  love  of  a  really 
bad  boy  Sissy  felt  she  could  have  sacrificed 
much— for  a  fellow  quite  out  of  the  pale,  a 
bold,  wicked  pirate  of  a  boy  who  would  say 
"Darn,"  and  even  smoke  a  cigarette;  a  dare- 


60  THE  MADIGANS 

devil,  whose  people  could  do  nothing  with  him ; 
a  fellow  with  a  swagger  and  a  droop  to  his 
eyelid  and  something  deliciously  sinister  in 
his  lean,  firm  jaw  and  saucy  black  eye— a  boy 
like  Jack  Cody,  for  instance,  for  whom  a  whole 
world  of  short-skirted  femininity  divided  itself 
naturally  into  two  classes :  just  girls— and  Split 
Madigan.  But  that  a  forthright,  practical, 
severe  person  like  herself  should  be  made  ridic 
ulous  by  Crosby's  worship,  and  that  Split, 
her  arch-enemy,  should  be  there  to  hear  her 
adorer  make  his  sexless  declaration,  was  too 
much!  Even  a  Madigan  could  not  bear  up 
under  it.  "When  Sissy  looked  from  "Miss 
Crosby"  (as  the  very  girls  who  played  with 
him  called  him)  to  Split,  there  were  tears  of 
rage  trembling  in  her  eyes. 

.But,  with  a  generosity  suspiciously  unlike 
her,  Split  ignored  the  signal  of  distress. 
"What  time  this  afternoon  will  the  party 
begin,  Crosby  V'  she  asked. 

"Oh,  two  o'clock.  But  you  '11  come  early, 
won't  you— Sissy!" 

Sissy  did  not  answer.  She  was  waiting  to 
see  what  Split's  next  move  would  be. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  go,"  said  Split, 
gently.  "I  have  n't  any  gloves- unless  - 
won't  you  ask  father  for  some,  Sissy?" 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        61 

There  was  a  prompt  refusal  upon  Sissy's 
lips,  but  she  did  not  utter  it;  the  Pembertons' 
visit  had  given  the  enemy  too  much  material 
with  which  to  regale  her  fellow-Madigans  at 
the  dinner-table  in  the  evening.  Sissy  looked 
questioningly  into  Split's  eyes,  and  silently 
the  bargain  was  struck:  to  so  much  refrain 
ing  from  ridicule  in  public  on  the  part  of  one, 
a  certain  indebtedness  which  the  other  might 
discharge  by  facing  Francis  Madigan  with  a 
demand  for  money.  It  was  hard,  but  Sissy 
shut  her  teeth  and  got  to  her  feet. 

"Can  I  come  with  you,  Sissy ?"  asked 
Crosby,  following  her  to  the  door.  "If  you  '11 
let  me  have  your  tissue-paper  and  the  scissors, 
I  '11  show-" 

Sissy's  hands  flew  to  her  breast.  "I  wish 
—I  wish  you  'd  never  speak  to  me  again!"  she 
exclaimed,  and  Crosby  dodged  as  though  he 
were  apprehensive  that  she  might  beat  him. 

"It  's  so  kind  of  you  to  go  the  very  minute 
I  ask,"  giggled  Split,  gleefully. 

But  Sissy  shut  the  door  behind  her  on 
Crosby's  woeful  face  and  Split's  radiantly 
happy  one,  and  went  to  her  fate. 

Francis  Madigan 's  room  was  his  castle.     It 
was  his  castle  and  his  workshop  and  his  bou- 


i 

I 


62  THE  MADIGANS 

doir,  his  kitchen,  his  library,  and  his  pantry 
in  one.  The  laxness  of  the  family  housekeep 
ing  had  led  him  to  distrust  all  hands  and  heads 
but  his  own.  Everything  that  he  wanted,  or 
that  he  might  want  in  the  near  future,  he  kept 
under  his  eyes,  within  reach  of  his  hands, 
where  none  might  borrow  or  lose  or  destroy. 
In  order  to  provide  for  the  needs  which  grew 
and  changed  daily,  he  fitted  up  rude  shelf 
above  shelf,  till  the  corners  of  the  room  were 
transformed  into  rough  bric-a-brac  stands. 
Mr.  Madigan  had  the  unsuccessful  man 's  pride 
in  trifling  successes  in  amateur  carpentering, 
in  husbandry  of  any  sort  unrelated  to  the  real 
issues  of  his  life ;  and  every  tool  he  needed  for 
the  exercise  of  his  skill  he  kept  under  lock  and 
key.  He  believed  in,  he  trusted  no  Madigan. 
He  had  been  known  to  lend  his  penknife  to 
Sissy,  but  that  was  when  she  was  ailing  long 
ago.  He  laid  in  supplies  as  though  he  had  in 
side  information  of  a  famine  near  at  hand; 
and  his  pipes  and  his  great  cans  of  tobacco 
were  piled  up  with  his  cards  and  his  books 
on  the  table  where  he  played  solitaire  all  day 
and  read  half  the  night.  The  sweets  he  liked 
occasionally,  and  the  day's  provision  of  fruit 
(for  he  ate  fruit  only  and  at  this  time  looked 
upon  a  vegetarian  as  a  coarse  creature  who  be- 


- 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        65 

longed  to  a  dead  era),  were  packed  in  a  small 
home-made  pantry  of  the  design  and  construc 
tion  of  which  he  was  quite  vain.  His  bed 
swathed  in  sheets;  his  blankets  sewed  securely 
together,  as  though  he  feared  they  might  es 
cape;  a  device  all  his  own  of  great  wooden 
wedges  raising  the  lower  end  of  the  mattress 
so  that  his  feet  were  on  a  level  with  his  pil 
lowed  head;  the  chest  of  little  drawers  which 
his  daughters  called  "father's  hobby,"  nailed 
high  on  the  wall  and  filled  with  all  sorts  of 
odds  and  ends,  the  detritus  and  possible  repair- 
material  of  years  of  housekeeping— all  this 
Sissy  took  in  with  the  unseeing  eyes  one  has 
for  the  familiar. 

She  did  not  expect  her  father's  room  to  be 
like  any  one  else's;  neither  did  she  look  for  an 
easy  and  successful  termination  to  her  quest. 
Sometimes  she  got  what  she  asked  for,  but  she 
asked  for  little.  And  to-day  Francis  Madigan 
had  been  tinkering  at  the  old  house,  hammer 
ing  here  and  patching  there,  a  process  that  spe 
cially  tried  his  temper,  being  a  threatening 
indication  of  change,  which  he  resented  by  de 
claring  that  "everything  goes  to  the  devil." 

"Father,"  began  Sissy,  carefully,  as  she 
met  his  inquiring  eye,  "do  you  approve  of 
dancing?" 


66  THE  MADIGANS 

He  looked  up  from  his  cards.  "What  non 
sense  are  you  talking  now?" 

"  Because  Irene  and  I  have  a  good  chance 
to  practise  it— dancing— this  afternoon. " 

"Well— practise, "  he  growled. 

"Shall  we?  All  right.  It  's  Crosby's  party, 
you  know.  He  's  thirteen  to-day.  It  's  his 
party.  His  mother  's  giving  it  for  him  at 
Cooper's  Hall.  And  there  '11  be  dancing 
and-" 

' '  Nonsense ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  agreed  Sissy,  sweetly.  "But  we  '11 
go  if  you  say  so.  I  won't  need  any  dress, 
and—"  she  hurried  on  as  he  raised  his  head 
belligerently,  "neither  will  Irene.  Isn't  that 
lucky?  My  brown  will  do,  though  the  over- 
skirt  does  jump  up  when  I  dance  and  show  the 
red  sham  underneath;  but—" 

"What  are  you  bothering  me  about,  then?" 
he  demanded  indignantly,  throwing  down  his 
cards. 

"Gloves,"  she  said  gently.  Then  quickly, 
before  he  could  speak,  "That  's  all.  They 
don't  cost  very  much.  Or,  I  '11  tell  you,"— 
her  voice  grew  suddenly  most  cheerful,  as 
though  she  had  made  a  discovery  that  must 
delight  him,— "we  can  wear  mitts.  I  don't 
mind— and  neither  will  Split.  Just  a  pair 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        67 

of  blue  lace  ones  for  her  and  pink  for  me,  or 
—  or—"  her  voice  wavered,  but  she  was  ready 
to  pay  the  price,  "just  blue  ones  for  Split, 
father." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  "Why  not 
just  pink  ones  for  Sissy?"  he  asked  almost 
good-naturedly. 

Sissy  shook  her  head,  but  the  red  rushed  to 
her  cheeks.  She  had  won! 

"Are  you  sure  you  need  them!"  he  asked 
cautiously  in  the  very  act  of  bestowal. 

"Sure!  Sure!"  she  cried,  throwing  her 
arms  gratefully  about  his  neck  before  she 
danced  to  the  door. 

"But  you  're  going,  too?"  he  called  after 
her.  "All  right,  then.  Make  Irene  behave. 
She  's  an  ox— that  girl." 

An  ox,  of  course,  interpreted  variously  ac 
cording  to  Madigan's  mood  and  the  correlat 
ing  circumstances,  signified  this  time  an  in 
discreet,  pleasure-mad  child.  Sissy  under 
stood,  and  she  blushed  for  her  sister.  In  fact, 
she  was  always  blushing  for  her  sister.  She 
considered  it  to  be  her  duty  formally  and  of 
ficially  to  disavow  her  senior.  So  reprehensi 
ble  did  she  feel  Split's  conduct  to  be  that 
some  one  must  blush  for  it;  and  as  blushing 
was  not  Split's  forte,  Sissy  did  it  for  her. 


68  THE  MADIGANS 

And  she  really  did  it  very  well,  with  an  as 
sumption  of  chagrin  that  could  not  fail  to  call 
attention  subtly  to  the  contrast  between  the 
sisters.  When  Split  failed  in  her  lessons  with 
a  completeness,  a  sensational  ostentation  that 
was  shocking  to  Sissy,  that  Number  1  scholar 
blushed  gently,  and,  discreetly  lowering  her 
head,  became  absorbed  in  her  work.  After 
school,  when  Split  was  being  kept  in  and  dis 
ciplined  (a  process  which  never  failed  effec 
tually  to  discipline  the  hardy  individual  who 
attempted  it),  when  she  wept  and  stormed  and 
raged  and  threw  caution  to  the  winds  as  only 
tempestuous  Split  could,  then  was  Sissy's 
attitude  a  marvel  of  disapproving  rectitude. 
She  had  a  great  deal  of  dignity,  had  Sissy, 
and  the  picture  of  holiness  that  she  presented 
as,  with  her  books  on  her  arm,  she  walked  past 
the  desk  where  the  sobbing  sinner's  head  lay 
with  tumbled  curls  and  bloated  face,  came  as 
near  as  anything  could  to  quench  the  passion 
of  tears  in  which  Split's  tempers  culminated. 
On  such  occasions  the  infuriated  Split  was 
wont,  for  just  a  moment,  to  conquer  the  half- 
hysterical  sobs  that  threatened  to  choke  her  as 
well  as  inundate  the  world,  and  make  a  face 
at  Saint  Cecilia  as  she  passed  holily  by.  But 
Cecilia  was  a  Madigan  always,  as  well  as  a 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        69 

saint  temporarily,  and  her  eyes  were  turned 
prudently  away  just  then,  as  though  she  were 
already  studiously  pondering  to-morrow's 
lesson. 

But  Sissy  blushed  her  most  perfect  disap 
proval  when  she  played  chaperon  to  her  elder 
sister.  It  was  a  position  for  which  she  felt 
herself  peculiarly  fitted,  even  without  the  semi 
official  commission  she  held— a  position  which 
so  conscientious  a  person  could  not  regard 
in  the  light  of  a  sinecure. 

As  she  danced  only  the  more  sedate  dances, 
because  of  that  obtrusive  tendency  of  the  red 
sham  to  her  skirt,  Sissy  was  able  to  chaperon 
her  senior  all  the  more  effectively  at  Crosby 
Pemberton's  party.  Irene  danced  like  a  thing 
whose  vocation  is  motion.  She  was  a  twig  in 
a  rain-storm,  a  butterfly  seeking  sweets,  a  hum 
ming-bird  whose  wing  beat  the  air  with  a  very 
rhapsody  of  rhythm.  She  was  on  the  floor 
with  the  first  note  Professor  Trask  struck,  and 
she  danced  down  the  side  of  the  little  hall, 
when  the  waltz  was  over  and  all  the  other  cou 
ples  had  seated  themselves,  as  though  the  meter 
of  the  music  had  bewitched  her  feet  and  they 
might  nevermore  walk  soberly. 

' i Split— don't !"  It  was  the  shocked  voice 
of  her  young  chaperon. 


70  THE  MADIGANS 

" Sissy— don't !"  mocked  the  mutinous  Split. 

Even  after  she  took  the  seat  beside  Sissy, 
her  heels  were  lifted  and  the  toes  of  her  slip 
pers  were  beating  time.  She  sat  there  chatter 
ing  to  a  group  of  boys  buzzing  about  her, 
upon  whom  her  high  spirits  had  the  effect  that 
dance-music  had  upon  herself. 

"You  're  the  prettiest  girl  I  Ve  seen  since 
I  left  the  city,  Irene, ' '  patronizingly  whispered 
the  boy  lately  from  San  Francisco,  whose 
metropolitan  elegances  had  dazzled  the  eyes 
of  the  mountain  maidens. 

"I  wonder  how  many  girls  Will  Morrow  's 
said  that  to  this  afternoon !"  came  like  a  sar 
castic  douche  from  Sissy,  who  conceived  it 
to  be  a  chaperon's  duty  to  take  the  conceit  out 
of  citified  chaps. 

Young  Morrow  turned  to  find  a  small  wo 
man  in  brown  eying  him  disdainfully. 

"Well— well,  I  never  said  it  to  you,  any 
way,"  he  retorted  gallantly. 

"Good  reason  why.  You  knew  I  would  n't 
believe  you,"  Sissy  declared,  floundering  in 
her  anger. 

"Neither  would  anybody  else." 

"Why?  Because  you  said  it?  Did  n't  know 
you  had  such  a  reputation."  Sissy  was  re 
covering.  "Never  mind,  Split,"  she  added, 


A'  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        73 

heavily  sarcastic  and  assuming  a  comforting 
air  that  maddened  Irene,  who  desired  nothing 
more  than  to  impress  her  new  suitor  with  the 
elegant  gentility  of  her  manner,  her  family's, 
and  all  that  was  hers.  "Just  to  have  a  hoy 
from  the  city  even  pretend  to  think  you  're 
good-looking  is  worth  living  for.  Boys  know 
so  much— in  the  city!"  she  concluded  wither- 
ingly. 

Mr.  Morrow  from  San  Francisco  looked  be 
wildered.  He  had  merely  paid  what  he  consid 
ered  a  very  dashing  compliment  to  one  girl, 
when  lol  the  other  overwhelmed  him  with  her 
contempt.  He  turned  for  consolation  to  Irene. 

"I  '11  show  you  how  they  dance  the  two- 
step  in  the  city, ' '  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand 
as  the  music  began  again. 

But  he  had  reckoned  without  that  stern  cen 
sor  of  sisterly  manners,  Cecilia  Madigan ;  that 
loyal  Comstocker  who  resented  the  implication 
of  her  town's  inferiority,  quite  independent  of 
the  fact  that  the  insult  was  not  addressed  to 
her  but  to  one  who,  apparently,  welcomed  it. 

"I  think  I  '11  go  home  now,  Split,"  she  re 
marked  carelessly,  rising. 

A  sudden  blight  fell  upon  the  belle  of  the 
afternoon.  When  Sissy  went,  go  she  must, 
too;  this  was  the  sole  rule  of  conduct  Francis 


74  THE  MADIGANS 

Madigan  had  devised  for  the  guidance  of  his 
most  headstrong  daughter. 

"Oh,  Sissy— not  till  after  supper !"  she 
pleaded  piteously. 

"I— I  Ve  got  some  studying  to  do  for  the 
examination  Monday/7  explained  the  exem 
plary  member  of  Mr.  Garvan's  class  and  soci 
ety  at  large. 

"Just  wait  till  this  one  dance  is  over!" 
Coaxing  was  not  Split  Madigan 's  forte;  she 
was  accustomed  to  demand. 

But  it  was  just  that  one  dance  that  Sissy, 
the  pure  and  patriotic,  could  not  countenance. 

A  quick  flash  of  fury  lighted  Irene *s  eye. 
To  be  bossed  publicly  and  before  Mr.  Will 
Morrow  of  San  Francisco !  In  her  heart  she 
swore  to  be  avenged;  yet  she  dropped  Mr. 
Morrow's  hand  and  shook  her  head  to  all  his 
pleadings,  as  she  followed  her  ruthless  tyrant 
across  the  floor  to  the  little  dressing-room. 

But  as  the  sisters  emerged  from  the  dress 
ing-room  door,  Crosby  Pemberton  and  his  cou 
sin  Fred  stopped  them. 

"You  're  not  going  home,  Split ?"  begged 
Fred.  "I  Ve  been  looking  everywhere  for 
you.  Oh,  come  and  dance  just  this  one  with 
me!" 

"Sissy  's  going,"  said  Split,  the  lilting  of 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        75 

the  music  stirring  her  pulses  and  lifting  her 
feet,  despite  the  unmusical  rage  she  was  in, 
' '  and  I  've  got  to  go,  too. ' ' 

" Won't  you  stay— won't  you  wait  just  for 
this  one,  Sissy  !"  begged  Fred. 

1 '  Why— certainly, "  acquiesced  the  gentle 
Sissy. 

Split  gasped  with  amazement.  But  she 
wasted  no  time,  throwing  off  her  jacket  with 
a  quick  twist  of  her  wrist.  Later  she  might 
fathom  the  tortuosities  of  her  tyrant's  mind. 
All  she  knew  now  was  that  she  might  dance. 
With  whom  was  a  small  matter  to  Split  Madi- 
gan. 

Sissy  watched  her  dance  away,  delight  and 
malice  in  her  eye.  She  was  watching  till  Mr. 
Morrow  from  the  city  should  behold  her  re 
venge.  But  Crosby  did  not  know  this,  and  he 
had  plans  of  his  own. 

"Come  and  play  a  game  over  in  the  corner, 
just  till  this  dance  's  over,  won't  you,  Sissy?" 

"What  kind  of  a  game!"  she  demanded, 
following  him  mechanically. 

"Oh,  a  new  game.  It  's  lots  of  fun.  I  '11 
show  you." 

Sissy  consented.  She  could  play  a  game— 
and  she  knew  she  was  clever  at  all  games— 
without  fear  of  betrayal  from  that  red  sham 


76  THE  MADIGANS 

which  she  had  been  fiercely  sitting  upon  halj 
the  afternoon. 

Before  long,  her  emulative  spirit  got  her  s< 
interested  in  this  particular  game  that  she  for 
got  not  only  the  sham  skirt  but  the  sham  pre 
tense  upon  which  she  had  bullied  Irene.  And 
she  played  so  well  that  there  was  only  one  for 
feit  against  her  name,  though  Crosby,  who  had 
named  himself  treasurer,  held  half  the  ban 
gle  bracelets  and  pins  and  handkerchiefs  of 
the  little  circle  as  evidence  of  dereliction  in 
others. 

He  called  her  name  first,  as  he  stood  with 
her  little  turquoise  ring  in  his  hand  and  an 
odd  light  in  his  eye  that  might  have  enlight 
ened  her ;  but  she  was  looking  toward  the  door, 
where  the  young  gentleman  from  San  Fran 
cisco,  in  a  Byronic  pose,  was  staring  gloomily 
at  Irene  dancing  with  a  rival,  and  so  joying 
in  the  dance  that  she  had  forgotten  all  about 
him. 

11  Open  your  mouth  and  shut  your  eyes, 
And  I  '11  give  you  something  to  make  you  wise,  '  ' 

chanted  Crosby,  holding  out  the  ring  and  beck 
oning  to  her. 
Closing  her  eyes  upon  the  spectacle  of  Mr. 


A  PAGAN  AND  A  PURITAN        77 

Morrow's  suffering,  Sissy  opened  a  mouth 
about  which  the  malicious  smile  still  lingered. 

Crosby  hesitated  a  moment.  He  was  very 
much  afraid  of  her,  but  as  she  stood,  docile  and 
innocent,  before  him,  with  her  eyes  shut  and 
her  tiny  red  mouth  open,  he  could  not  fancy 
consequences  nearly  so  well  as  he  could  picture 
the  thing  his  wish  painted. 

In  a  moment  he  had  realized  it,  and  Sissy, 
overwhelmed  by  astonishment,  dumb  and  im 
potent  with  the  audacity  of  the  unexpected, 
felt  his  arms  close  about  her  and  his  greedy 
lips  upon  hers. 

Oh,  the  rage  and  shame  of  the  proper  Sissy ! 
Her  mouth  fell  shut  and  her  eyes  flew  open. 
And  then,  if  she  could,  she  would  have  closed 
them  forever;  for,  before  her  in  the  sudden 
silence,  towering  above  the  triumphant  and 
unrepentant  Crosby,  stood  Mrs.  Pemberton,  a 
portentous  figure  of  shocked  matronly  disap 
proval.  And  she  promptly  placed  the  blame 
where  mothers  of  sons  have  placed  it  since  the 
first  similar  impropriety  was  discovered. 

"Cecilia!"  she  cried  in  that  velvety  bass 
that  echoed  through  the  room— "Cecilia  Madi- 
gan,  you— teaching  my  son  a  vulgar  kissing 
game— you,  the  good  one!  Oh,  you  deceitful 
little  thing!" 


A  MERRY,  MERRY  ZINGARA 


A  MERRY,  MERRY  ZINGARA 

IT  had  been  Crosby  Pemberton's  custom  to 
climb  the  steps  that  led  to  Madigan's  every 
Wednesday  afternoon  at  four,  with  his  music 
neatly  done  up  in  a  roll,  on  his  way  to  play 
duets  with  Sissy. 

On  the  Wednesday  that  followed  his  birth 
day  party— the  mere  mention  of  which,  after 
the  lapse  of  four  days,  was  enough  to  send 
Sissy  into  »  hysterics— that  young  lady  was 
seated  in  the  parlor,  ready  for  her  guest.  She 
was  ready  for  him  in  all  the  senses  a  Madigan 
knew  how  to  infuse  into  that  frame  of  mind. 
She  intended  to  make  him  as  miserable  as  she 
herself  had  been  ever  since  that  disgraceful 
episode  in  which  she  had  so  innocently  played 
the  victim's  part.  She  would  show  the  be 
trayer  of  trust  no  mercy— none.  She  would 
accept  no  apology.  She  would  trample  upon 
his  excuses  and  tear  them  limb  from  limb.  She 
would  show  him  her  scorn  and  detestation  and 
make  him  feel  how  everlastingly  unforgivable 

81 


82  THE  MADIGANS 

his  offense  was ;  then  she  would  send  him  forth 
forever  from  the  house,  and  dare  him  to  so 
much  as  speak  to  her  at  school. 

She  pictured  him  going  down  the  stairs  for 
the  last  time,  utterly  wretched,  broken,  de 
spised,  condemned.  And  in  order  to  make  the 
picture  more  real,  she  glanced  out  of  the  win 
dow.  Suddenly  her  hands  flew  in  terror  to 
her  breast,  and  all  her  plans  for  vengeance 
were  left  hanging  in  mid-air;  for  it  was  not 
Crosby's  trim  little  figure  that  was  climbing 
the  steps,  but  the  stately  solidity  of  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton  herself. 

In  her  extremity,  Sissy  did  not  even  stop  to 
look  at  the  back  legs  of  the  piano;  she  sped 
across  the  room  and  made  a  flying  leap  through 
the  low  west  window.  Mrs.  Pemberton,  glan 
cing  in  through  the  open  door  as  she  rang  the 
bell,  got  a  glimpse  of  two  plump  disappearing 
legs,  but  when  she  and  Miss  Madigan  entered, 
there  was  no  trace  of  Sissy  except  her  jack- 
stones.  They  stumbled  over  these,  lying  scat 
tered  on  the  floor,  where  she  had  been  sitting 
waiting  for  Crosby  and  concocting  schemes  of 
punishment. 

"I  come  to  explain—  "  said  Mrs.  Pemberton, 
stiffly  and  a  bit  out  of  breath,  seating  herself 
with  a  rigidity  of  backbone  that  would  have 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA      83 

justified  Sissy's  bestowal  upon  her  of  the  nick 
name  Mrs.  Ramrod,  if  she  could  have  seen  it. 
But  Sissy,  lying  attentive  beneath  the  open 
window,  could  not  see;  she  could  only  hear. 
"  I  am  here  to  tell  you,  Miss  Madigan,  why 
Crosby  did  not  come  to-day  to  play  duets. " 

"Dear  me!  did  n't  he  come?"  asked  Miss 
Madigan,  absently.  "He  is  n't  sick,  is  he! 
Irene  complains  of  headache  and  backache,  and 
she  's  so  languid  she  let  Sissy  get  the  wish-bone 
—I  call  it  the  bone  of  contention— at  dinner 
yesterday  without  a  struggle.  I  'in  half  afraid 
she  '11  not  be  able  to  sing  to-night  at  Pro 
fessor  Trask's  concert;  but  perhaps  it  's  only 
that  she  danced  too  much  at  Crosby's  party. 
She  al-" 

"It  's  about  that— about  the  party  that  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you, ' '  interrupted  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton,  severely. 

"Yes?  Such  a  lovely  party,  the  girls  say! 
I  'm  sure,  Mrs.  Pemberton,  it  's  just—  " 

"Did  they  tell  you  what— occurred?" 

Miss  Madigan  blinked  reflectively.  Her  ac 
quaintance  with  the  stately  and  wealthy  Mrs. 
Warren  Pemberton  was  her  most  prized  social 
connection.  What  could  have  occurred? 

"Why,  of  course,  of  course!"  she  laughed 
after  a  bit,  pleasantly,  still  trying  to  remem- 


84  THE  MADIGANS 

ber  what  the  girls  had  gossiped  about.  "De 
lightful,  was  n't  it  I" 

Mrs.  Pemberton  lifted  her  plumed  head  with 
a  slow  and  terrible  solemnity.  ' '  De-lightf ul, 
Miss  Madigan,  de-lightf ul ! ' ' 

The  smile  vanished  from  Miss  Madigan '3 
face.  "I  hope,  dear  Mrs.  Pemberton,  that  the 
girls  did  nothing  that— that—  They  're  such 
madcaps,  and  their  father  never  will—  " 

Miss  Madigan 's  distress  touched  her  august 
visitor.  "I  trust  this,"  she  said  significantly, 
"will  be  a  lesson  to  Mr.  Madigan." 

"What— what  will?  If  there  's  a  lesson  for 
Madigan,  let  him  have  it  direct,  Mrs.  Pember 
ton." 

Lying  flat  on  her  stomach  beneath  the  win 
dow,  Sissy  heard  her  father's  voice  come 
clanging  harshly  on  the  lighter-timbred  dia 
logue.  Cautiously  she  raised  herself  on  her 
elbow  and  let  a  single  eye  peer  through  the  cur 
tain  at  the  group  within.  There,  with  his  paint- 
pot  in  his  hand,  his  brush  and  his  pipe  in  the 
other,  his  unique  nightcap  rakishly  on  one  side 
and  drawn  over  his  white  head  to  protect  it 
from  the  paint,  Madigan  stood  in  his  overalls 
and  heavy  shirt— his  Michelangelo  costume, 
Kate  had  called  it.  He  had  been  regilding  an 
old  mirror  in  his  room,  and  having  some  gilt 


A  MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA       85 

left  at  the  bottom  of  his  can,  he  was  going 
about  the  house  in  search  of  tarnished  articles 
of  virtu. 

"Oh,  Francis!"  exclaimed  his  sister. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Madiganf"  said 
Mrs.  Pemberton,  bravely,  putting  out  her  hand. 
' '  I  did  not  know  you  were  within  hearing. ' ' 

"Or  you  would  n't  have  offered  the  lesson  I 
Well,  give  it  to  me,  now  that  I  am  here.  No, 
I  won't  shake  hands;  mine  are  all  sticky  with 
gilt."  He  rested  his  elbow  on  his  hip  and 
stood  at  ease. 

A  savage  delight  at  this  outrage  upon  gen 
tility  in  Mrs.  Ramrod's  very  presence  pos 
sessed  that  red  republican  Sissy.  She  giggled 
within  herself,  Madigan's  attitude,  his  streaked 
and  gilded  face,  his  confident  voice,  showed 
such  delightful  indifference  to  the  effect  his 
unconventional  attire  must  have  upon  this 
Priestess  of  Form. 

"I  must  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Madigan," 
said  that  lady,  in  her  most  official  tone,  "for 
using  the  expression  I  did.  The  matter  I 
wished  to  bring  to  Miss  Madigan's  attention— 
and  to  yours,  now  that  you  are  here— concerns 
one  of  your  daughters.  I  should  have  come 
to  tell  you  of  it  before,  as  was  my  duty,  as  I 
would  wish  any  mother  to  do  for  me  were  it 


86  THE  MADIGANS 

my  daughter;  but  I  have  been  busy  helping 
the  Misses  Bryne-Stivers  and  Professor  Trask 
with  this  concert  for  to-night.  This  must  be 
my  apology  for  the  delay.  For  speaking— 
for  telling  you  what  I  have  to  tell,  no  mother 
could  apologize. " 

"H'm!"  Madigan  cleared  his  throat  threat 
eningly,  and  out  in  the  sage-brush  Sissy  shook 
with  apprehension.  She  knew  that  prelimi 
nary  bugle-call  to  battle. 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Pemberton,  we 
can  have  only  the  kindest  feelings  for  any  one 
who  will  take  an  interest  in  those  mother 
less—" 

"Let  Mrs.  Pemberton  go  on,  Anne,"  inter 
rupted  Madigan,  harshly.  "Just  what  is  it, 
ma'am!  Out  with  it." 

Mrs.  Pemberton  rose,  rustling  her  heavy 
silks. 

"Merely,  Mr.  Madigan,  that  with  my  own 
eyes  I  saw  your  daughter  take  part  in  a  vulgar 
kissing  game— the  only  occurrence  of  any  kind 
that  marred  the  perfect  propriety  of  my  son's 
birthday  party." 

There  was  a  long  silence  inside.  Sissy,  with 
out,  her  heart  beating  so  loud  that  she  was 
afraid  it  might  drown  all  other  sounds,  heard, 
despite  it,  Aunt  Anne's  gasp  of  horror,  the 


A   MERRY,    MERRY  ZINGARA      87 

tinkle  of  the  jet  on  Mrs.  Pemberton 's  heavy 
gown,  the  squeaking  of  her  father's  paint-spot 
ted  slippers  as  he  shifted  his  weight. 

Finally  it  came.  "That  ox!"  exclaimed 
Madigan,  in  a  rage. 

Mrs.  Pemberton  moved  in  majesty  toward 
the  door.  ' '  My  son, ' '  she  said  slowly,  ' '  chiv 
alrously  tries  to  take  the  blame  from  her  and 
insists  that  he  proposed  the  game  himself.  But 
I  know  Crosby  to  be  incapable  of  such  a 
thing." 

"H'm!    Yes.    So  do  I,"  assented  Madigan. 

Miss  Madigan  turned  to  her  brother,  and  in 
a  voice  that  suggested  long  years  of  martyr 
dom,  said:  "  You  will  send  her  to  the  convent 
now,  Francis  I  You  positively  must  now.  I 
really  admire  you  for  the  way  you  have  dis 
charged  a  most  unpleasant  duty,  Mrs.  Pember 
ton.  For  years  I  Ve  insisted  that  Irene 
must—" 

"Irene?  Yes,  if  it  had  been  Irene,  one  could 
expect  it,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pemberton,  fune 
really. 

"But  it  was  n't-it  could  n't  be-" 

"It  was  Cecilia."  Mrs.  Pemberton 's  grief- 
stricken  tones  conveyed  all  the  disappointment 
she  felt. 

Cecilia,  on  her  quaking  knees,  now  peering 


88  THE  MADIGANS 

through  the  window,  saw  a  quick  change  come 
over  her  father's  dread  countenance.  It 
smoothed,  it  wrinkled,  it  twitched,  and  his 
shoulders  began  to  shake  silently. 

"No !  Sissy  I"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  appre 
ciative  chuckle,  which  made  that  young  perfec 
tionist  outside  feel  seasick,  as  though  the  hill 
side  had  swelled  up  beneath  her.  "And  who 
was  the  boy,  might  I  ask ! ' ' 

"It  was7 '-Mrs.  Pemberton  paused  to  mark 
both  her  shocked  surprise  at  Mr.  Madigan 's 
reception  of  the  news,  as  well  as  the  further 
enormity  involved  in  its  completion— "my  son 
Crosby." 

"No!  Ha!  ha!  ha! "  Madigan 's  rare  laugh 
rang  out. 

Mechanically  Sissy  turned  down  her  thumb 
to  mark  the  number  of  times  she  had  heard  it, 
since  Split  and  she  had  made  a  wager  on  it. 
Inwardly,  though,  she  was  nauseated  by  the 
thought  that  she  was  being  laughed  at.  As 
nearly  destitute  as  a  Madigan  could  be  of  hu 
mor,  she  would  so  much  rather  have  been  flayed 
alive,  she  thought  in  the  depths  of  her  puri 
tanical  soul,  than  suffer  ridicule. 

"Crosby— eh?"  Madigan  was  recovering. 
"Congratulate  him  for  me.  I  did  n't  know  the 
little  milksop  had  it  in  him.  You  ought  to 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA      89 

thank  Sissy,  ma'am,  for  proving  that  he  is  not 
really  stuffed  with  sawdust.  Where  is  she, 
anyway  1 ' ' 

Lying  flat,  her  blushing  face  buried  in  the 
sage-brush,  was  Sissy  at  that  moment,  while 
Mrs.  Ramrod  rustled  out  of  the  room,  precisely 
as  she  had  done  the  day  Crosby  failed  in  the 
public  oral  examination  in  geography,  Miss 
Madigan  hurrying  placatingly  after. 

But  outside  Sissy  wept  and  would  not  be 
comforted.  Her  purist's  pride  was  wounded; 
her  prudish  maiden's  modesty  was  outraged— 
that  her  own  father  should  believe  it  of  her! 
And  she  must  not  open  the  subject  or  try  to 
alter  his  opinion,  for  fear  of  the  ridicule  which 
seared  her  very  soul! 

A  taste  for  the  ethereally  symbolic  had  not 
strongly  manifested  itself  in  Virginia  City,  yet 
under  Professor  Trask's  direction  "The  Can 
tata  of  the  Flowers"  had  been  in  active  rehear 
sal  for  weeks.  The  professor  relied  upon  the 
school-children  for  chorus  material,  and  upon 
the  Madigans  to  fill  those  lieutenancies  without 
which  the  spectacular  features  of  his  produc 
tion  must  be  a  failure— this  last  as  a  matter 
of  course.  For  there  were  many  Madigans, 
and  those  of  them  that  were  not  leaders  by  in- 


90  THE  MADIGANS 

stinct  had  developed  leadership  through  force 
of  environment,  a  natural  desire  to  bully  others 
being  not  the  least  important  by-product  of  be 
ing  bullied.  Besides,  the  reputation  they  had  of 
being  talented  the  professor  knew  to  be  almost 
as  efficacious  in  lending  children  self-confi 
dence  as  talent  itself. 

Kate,  therefore,  who  could  not  sing  a  note, 
but  who  was  grace  embodied,  led  a  chorus  of 
Poppies,  whose  red  tissue-paper  garments 
creaked  and  rustled  as  they  swayed,  waving 
their  star-tipped  wands  and  chanting  "Breathe 
we  now  our  charmed  fragrance." 

Florence  and  Bessie,  whom  the  curse  of 
being  twins  linked  like  galley-slaves,  were 
Heather-bells  in  a  childish  chorus  which  piped 
forth  the  information  "We  are  the  Heather- 
bells  :  list  to  our  song, ' '  but  which  was  almost 
ruined  by  their  common  desire  to  get  away 
from  each  other  and  lead  in  two  different  di 
rections. 

Quite  self-possessed  (even  if  she  was  very 
much  off  key),  Sissy,  who  was  the  best 
"  speaker "  in  her  class,  warbled  her  part  of  a 
sanctimonious  little  duet  in  which  Heliotrope 
and  Mignonette  voiced  the  sentiment— 

'T  is  not  in  beauty  alone  we  may  find 
Purity,   goodness,   and  wisdom  combined  " 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA      93 

Even  small  Frances,  most  self-conscious  of 
Madigans,  in  a  costume  so  inadequate  that 
Bep  's  -doll  would  have  been  scandalized  at  the 
idea  of  wearing  it,  posed  and  attitudinized  as 
a  Dewdrop.  She  was  pronounced  a  "  regular 
little  love ' '  by  the  Misses  Bryne-Stivers,  whom 
the  Madigans  had  nicknamed  the  Misses  Blind- 
Staggers— a  resentful  play  upon  their  hy 
phenated  name,  as  well  as  a  delicate  reference 
to  their  blue  goggles  that  might  have  served 
as  blinkers. 

For  Irene,  though,  as  the  unquestioned  pos 
sessor  of  a  voice,  a  solo  had  been  interpolated. 
She  was  to  repeat,  for  the  first  time  on  the  pro 
fessional  stage,  that  renowned  success  in  '  *  The 
Zingara"  which  school  exhibitions  had  made 
famous. 

Just  before  the  time  came  for  Split  to  sing, 
Sissy  was  hovering  about  the  prima  donna  in 
the  dressing-room.  As  Miss  Heliotrope  she 
wore  the  dark-purple  gown  which  Aunt  Anne 
had  made  over  from  her  own  wardrobe.  (Be 
ing  Comstock-born,  Sissy  knew  no  flower  in 
timately,  and  could  easily  be  imposed  upon  as 
to  their  habits  and  colors.)  Above  it  her  round 
little  dark  face  looked  almost  sallow,  in  spite 
of  the  excited  red  that  flamed  in  her  cheeks. 

The  atmosphere  of  a  theater  was  like  wine 
to  the  Madigans.  The  smell  of  escaping  gas 


94  THE  MADIGANS 

in  the  dark  was,  in  itself,  enough  to  transport 
them  by  association  of  ideas  out  of  the  worka 
day  world ;  and  emotion  due  to  a  dramatic  situ 
ation  was  the  one  evidence  of  sensibility  they 
permitted  themselves. 

Yet  Sissy,  who  was  tying  the  ribbons  on 
Split's  tambourine,  looked  in  vain  for  a  re 
flection  of  that  fever  of  delight  which  possessed 
herself.  Split  was  cross.  She  was  languid. 
She  was  dull.  She  did  not  seem  to  enjoy  even 
the  pair  of  slippers  she  wa,s  pulling  on.  They 
had  been  given  to  Sissy  by  Henrietta  Blind- 
Staggers,  and  their  newness  and  beauty  had 
tempted  the  poor  Zingara.  But  if  Sissy  had 
not  felt  that  the  family  fortunes  were  at 
stake,  as  she  always  did  in  the  matter  of  a 
public  appearance,  she  would  never  have 
made  so  generous  an  offer  of  her  cherished 
property. 

"But  they  seem  awful  tight,  Split, "  she 
suggested. 

"They  're  nothing  of  the  sort,"  snapped 
Split,  wincing  as  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  're  going  to  dance  in 
them." 

"Will  you  just  leave  that  to  me,  Miss  Cecilia 
Morgan  Madigan,  and  mind  your  own  busi 
ness?" 


'  I  don't  see  how  you  're  going  to  dance  in  them '  " 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA      97 

Deeply  offended,  Sissy  withdrew.  No  one 
called  her  Cecilia  Morgan  Madigan  who  did 
not  want  to  wound  her  to  the  soul  and  remind 
her  of  an  incident  it  were  more  generous  to 
forget.  She  went  out  to  the  wings  and  stood 
there  looking  upon  the  stage  and  Professor 
Trask,  who,  as  the  Recluse,  was  gowned  in 
mysterious  flowing  black,  while  he  chanted 
"Here  would  I  rest"  in  a  hollow  bass.  But 
Sissy  was  worried.  Not  even  being  behind  the 
scenes  could  still  her  apprehensions  about 
Split.  She  longed  to  confide  in  some  fellow- 
Madigan,  but  Kate  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
stage,  and  to  all  her  winks  and  beckonings 
turned  an  uninterested  back.  Then,  all  at  once, 
sooner  than  she  expected,  the  Recluse  departed, 
the  scenes  shifted;  there,  alone  on  the  stage, 
looking  white  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights,  was 
a  bedizened,  big-eyed,  panting  little  Zingara, 
and  the  syncopated  prelude  began. 

Sissy's  fingers  thrummed  it  sympathetically 
upon  her  knee,  but  Trask,  who  was  playing  the 
accompaniment  behind  the  scenes,  had  put  an 
unfamiliar  accent  upon  the  notes.  Out  on  the 
stage  the  Zingara  was  beating  her  tambourine 
sadly  out  of  time  and  was  longing,  with  a 
panicky  fear,  for  the  familiar  touch  of  Sissy's 
hand  upon  the  piano. 


98  THE  MADIGANS 

'  *  Dum— dum  -  de  -  dum  -  dum— dum  -  dum— 
dum-dum ! ' ' 

The  notes  came  like  a  warning  signal.  The 
Zingara's  throat  was  parched,  her  feet  ached 
excruciatingly  merely  from  carrying  her 
weight— how,  oh,  how  was  she  going  to  dance! 
'  *  Dum— dum  -de  -  dum  -  dum— dum  -  dum— 
dum-dum ! ' ' 

The  last  note  prolonged  itself  into  a  sum 
mons.  The  Zingara's  eye,  turning  from  the 
faces  that  danced  before  her,  sent  appealing 
glances  to  the  wings,  where  Sissy  yearned  to 
ward  her,  all  rivalry  drowned  in  a  mothering 
anxiety  for  her  success. 

"  'I  'm  a— mer-ry,  meh-hi-ri-y— Zin-ga- 
ra!  '  "  wailed  Split,  trying  to  get  her  breath. 
"  'From  a— gold-e-en— clime  I  come!' 

Sissy's  hands  flew  to  her  breast,  then  with 
a  wild  gesture  up  over  her  ears,  and  she  fled 
back  to  the  dressing-room.  Split  the  redoubt 
able,  Split  the  invincible,  the  impudent,  ready, 
pugnacious  Split  had  stage-fright!  The 
world  rocked  beneath  Sissy's  feet.  Time 
stopped,  and  all  the  world  stood  agape  witness 
ing  a  Madigan's  failure!  It  seemed  to  the 
third  of  them  that  she  could  never  bear  to  lift 
her  head  again  and  meet  a  Comstocker's  eye 
and  see  there  that  shameful  record  against  the 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA      99 

family.  But  she  scrambled  quickly  to  her  feet 
when  Irene  came  running  in,  "The  Zingara" 
all  unsung. 

Irene 's  face  was  white  and  her  eyes  glittered. 
Sissy  did  not  dare  meet  them,  for,  to  a  Madi- 
gan,  to  put  a  shame  in  words  or  looks  was  to 
double  and  triple  it.  She  did  not  dare  to  con 
dole  ;  she  had  no  heart  to  accuse.  So  she  bent 
down  again,  ostensibly  to  tie  her  shoe,  in  order 
to  give  the  furious  little  Zingara  time  to  re 
cover  and  to  begin  to  undress.  She  heard  the 
tambourine's  tingling  clatter  as  it  was  cast  to 
the  floor.  She  looked  anywhere  but  at  her  sis 
ter,  but  she  heard  buttons  give  and  buttonholes 
rend,  and  bowed  her  head  to  the  storm. 

"I  must  say/7  she  remarked  in  a  scornfully 
careless  tone  when  the  silence  became  oppres 
sive,  "that  Trask  plays  funny  accompani 
ments.'7  And  she  lifted  her  head,  fancying 
herself  rather  clever  in  finding  a  scapegoat. 

She  ducked  immediately,  but  not  in  time. 
One  of  her  own  slippers,— oh,  the  irony  of 
things!— torn  off  and  thrown  by  Split's  im 
patient  hand,  struck  her  in  the  face. 

Sissy's  cheek  flamed.  "Did  you  do  that  on 
purpose,  Split  Madigan!" 

Split  Madigan  had  not  done  it  on  purpose, 
for  the  reason  mainly  that  it  had  not  occurred 


100  THE  MADIGANS 

to  her.  But  now  that  it  was  done,  it  was  not 
in  her  present  fury  against  all  the  world  to 
disclaim  intention  to  insult  so  small  a  part  of 
it.  Glad  of  an  excuse  to  outrage  some  one, 
any  one,— and,  even  then,  preferably  Sissy,— 
to  make  her  sister  share  some  of  that  hurt  and 
sting  and  smart  that  burned  within  herself,  she 
met  Sissy 's  eye  maliciously,  triumphantly,  sig 
nificantly. 

Sissy  gasped.  She  took  the  slipper  in  her 
hand  and  made  for  her  enemy.  She  intended, 
she  believed,  to  ram  her  own  best  Sunday  slip 
per  down  Split  Madigan's  throat!  And  she 
got  quite  close  before  she  could  have  been  made 
to  believe  that  anything  on  earth  or  anywhere 
else  could  alter  her  intention.  But  a  little  thing 
did;  merely  the  sound  of  voices  outside  the 
door  and  a  swift,  piteous  change  of  expression 
in  that  defiant  face  opposite. 

Sissy  dropped  the  slipper  and  flew  to  the 
door.  She  had  a  glimpse— which  she  pre 
tended  not  to  have  seen— of  the  Merry  Zin- 
gara  crumbling  in  a  passion  of  regretful  sobs 
to  the  floor.  Then  she  was  standing  outside, 
her  back  to  the  closed  door,  a  determined,  fat 
little  Horatius  in  purple,  with  two  red  cheeks, 
—one,  indeed,  redder  than  the  other  where  the 
slipper  had  struck,— vowing  to  hold  the  bridge 


"  'But  is  she  very  sick  I 


A  MEEEY,   MERRY  ZINGARA     103 

against  all  comers,  so  that  Split  might  mourn 
in  peace. 

"  But  is  she  very  sick?"  came  the  eager  ques 
tion. 

"  Well— pretty  sick,"  said  the  doctor, 
gravely. 

"Not  very?"  Sissy's  voice  fell  disappoint 
edly.  She  opened  the  door  for  him  and  stood 
at  the  head  of  the  steps  as  he  prepared  cau 
tiously  to  descend. 

"You  don't  want  your  sister  to  be  danger 
ously  ill,  do  you?"  Dr.  Murchison  demanded 
sharply,  turning  upon  her. 

"N-no,"  said  Sissy. 

"Well,  see  that  you  don't  squabble  with  her. 
Your  aunt  ought  to  have  sent  for  me  five  days 
ago,  instead  of  which  she  lets  a  sick,  nervous, 
half-crazy  child  dance  and  sing  on  the  stage. 
All  poppycock!" 

"Can  I  help  you  down  the  first  step,  doc 
tor?"  asked  Sissy,  gratefully. 

She  was  so  thankful  for  his  words.  No  one 
—not  even  a  Madigan,  accustomed  to  be  held 
strictly  accountable— could  be  to  blame  for  a 
failure  if  she  had  been  ill  at  the  time.  The 
family  was  almost  rehabilitated,  it  seemed  to 
Sissy. 


104  THE  MADIGANS 

The  doctor's  dim  old  eyes  looked  curiously 
at  her.  "I  believe  you  've  got  some  deviltry 
in  your  head,  Sissy.  Now,  you  mind  me  and 
let  your  sister  alone.  There!  I  'm  all  right 
now.  I  can  go  all  right  the  rest  of  the  way 
when  I  'm  once  started  down  your  infernal 
stairs.  I  ought  to  charge  your  father  double 
rates  for  risking  my  old  bones  on  them.  Yes, 
it  's  all  right  now.  It  's  only  the  first  step  that 
bothers  me.  It  's  always  the  first  step  that 
costs— eh,  Sissy?" 

She  looked  blankly  up  at  him. 

He  bent  down  and  patted  her  head.  "See 
here, ' '  he  said,  "I  '11  bet  you  Ve  got  more  sense 
than  you  want  us  to  believe." 

Sissy  blushed.  It  was  a  tardy  tribute,  she 
felt,  but  as  welcome  as  it  was  deserved. 

1 '  With  a  lot  of  common  sense  and  a  physique 
like  yours,  you  ought  to  make  a  good  nurse. 
Take  care  of  your  sister,"  he  added  almost 
appealingly,  divided  between  his  knowledge  of 
how  poor  a  nurse  Miss  Madigan  was  and  how 
impossible  it  was  to  tell  this  to  her  niece. 
"She  '11  be  cross  and  irritable  and— even 
worse  than  usual,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile 
that  recognized  the  battle-ground  upon  which 
the  Madigans  spent  their  lives ;  and  this  recog 
nition  made  him  seem  more  human  to  them 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA     105 

than  any  other  adult.  "But  you  just  treat  her 
like  a  teething  baby.  She  ?s  got  a  hard  row 
to  hoe,  that  poor,  bad  Split.  She  must  sleep, 
and  you  understand  her— Lord!  Lord!  the 
care  these  queer  little  devils  need!"  he  mut 
tered,  shaking  his  shoulders  as  he  went  on 
down  the  steps,  as  though  physically  to  throw 
off  responsibility. 

Sissy  turned  and  went  back  into  the  house. 
It  was  a  queer  house,  she  thought.  To  her 
alert  impressibility,  the  sickness  and  appre 
hension  it  inclosed  were  something  tangible. 
She  could  taste  the  odors  of  the  sick-room. 
She  could  feel  the  weight  of  the  odd  stillness 
that  filled  it.  The  sharpness  of  sound  when  it 
did  come,  the  strangeness  of  suppressed  ex 
citement,  the  unfamiliar  place  with  Split's 
quick  figure  missing,  the  loneliness  of  being 
without  her,  the  boredom  of  lacking  a  play 
mate  or  a  fighting-mate—it  all  affected  Sissy 
as  the  prelude  of  a  drama  the  end  of  which 
has  something  terrifyingly  fascinating  in  it. 
It  must  be  wonderful  to  die*  thought  Sissy, 
with  a  swift,  satisfying  vision  of  pretty  young- 
death — herself  in  white  and  the  mysterious 
glamour  of  the  silent  sleep.  Poor  Sissy,  who 
had  never  been  ill ! 

Split,  with  shorn  head  and  with  wide-open 


106  THE  MADIGANS 

eyes  and  hard,  flushed  cheeks,  lay  tossing  on 
the  big  bed  in  the  room  off  the  parlor,  which 
had  seldom  been  used  since  Frances  was  born 
there.  "Mother's  bed"  the  Madigans  always 
called  it,  and  they  crept  into  it  when  ailing,  as 
though  it  still  held  something  of  the  old  cura 
tive  magic  for  childish  aches,  though  all  but 
Kate  had  forgotten  the  mother's  face  as  it 
was  before  she  lay  down  there  the  last  time. 
Split  had  a  big  hot  silver  dollar  in  one  hand, 
—Francis  Madigan's  way  of  recognizing 
and  sympathizing  with  a  child's  illness,— and 
in  the  other  an  undivided  orange,  evidence 
enough  of  an  extraordinary  occasion  in  the 
Madigan  household.  But  she  was  not  waking. 
She  was  not  sleeping.  She  was  not  dreaming. 
She  knew  that  Sissy  had  come  in  and  had 
squatted  on  the  floor  with  Bep  and  Fom,  play 
ing  dolls,  probably.  Yet  she  felt  that  numb, 
gradual,  terrifying  enlargement  of  her  finger 
tips,  of  her  limbs,  of  her  tongue,  her  body,  her 
head,  that  she  had  been  told  again  and  again 
was  mere  fancy*  With  a  self-control  that  was 
unlike  her,  an  unnatural  product  of  her  un 
natural  state,  she  locked  her  jaws  together 
that  she  might  not  scream  this  once.  And  in 
the  eery  stillness  that  followed  the  effort,  which 
had  jnade  her  ears  buzz  and  her  temples  throb, 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA     107 

she  heard  quite  sanely  Florence's  denial  of 
some  charge  her  twin  had  brought  against  her. 

"I  did  n't  do  any  such  thing,"  she  whis 
pered. 

"You  did,"  said  Bep. 

"I  did  n't." 

"Cross  your  heart  to  die?" 

The  scream  burst  from  Irene  then— not  the 
cry  of  delirium,  but  a  sharp,  terrified,  if  in 
articulate,  call  for  help.  If  there  was  one 
thing  Split  did  respect,  it  was  that  Reaper 
whose  name  she  could  never  hear  without  a 
quick  indrawn  breath.  Yet— in  her  heart— 
she  knew  that,  though  others  might  fall  at  the 
touch  of  that  fearful  scythe,  she,  Split  Madi- 
gan,  a,s  fleet  of  limb  as  a  coyote  and  as  sound 
of  heart  as  a  young  pine-cone,  could  never, 
never  die ;  that  the  world  could  never  be  when 
her  quick  red  blood  should  be  quiet  and  her 
mountain-bred  lungs  should  be  stilled. 

With  a  bound  Sissy  pushed  the  twins  out  of 
the  door.  She  was  at  the  bedside  when  Miss 
Madigan  entered. 

"Go  outside,  Sissy!"  she  commanded. 
"Can't  you  see  you  're  exciting  her!  Is  n't 
it  hard  enough  for  me  to  take  care  of  her  when 
she  's  so  cross?  She  's  not  to  be  excited. 
She  's  to  be  kept  quiet.  There,  there,  Irene— 


108  THE  MADIGANS 

it  's  only  fancy,  I  tell  you !  Look  at  your  fin 
gers;  they  're  thinner,  littler  than  they  ever 
were.  Look  at  Sissy's;  see  how  much  bigger 
they  are." 

Irene  lifted  her  fingers  that  had  caught 
Sissy's.  She  looked  from  her  own  fevered 
hand  to  Sissy's  dimpled  one  and  was  com 
forted.  But  her  hold  on  her  old  enemy  did  not 
relax.  She  had  something  tangible  now  to 
reassure  her;  something  that  spoke  to  her  in 
her  own  language.  Her  eyes  closed,  her  tense 
little  hand  dropped  wearily,  but  she  held  Sissy 
fast. 

When  she  thought  her  patient  was  asleep, 
Miss  Madigan  tried  to  open  her  fingers,  but, 
with  something  of  her  old  waywardness,  Irene 
resisted.  And  Sissy,  with  an  old-fashioned 
nod  of  advice,  motioned  her  aunt  to  let  things 
be.  She  curled  herself  up  on  a  corner  of  the 
bed,  and— it  being  quite  safe,  no  other  Madi 
gan  being  present  but  this  unnatural  one  lying 
prone,  half  conscious,  half  dazed— she  put  her 
other  hand  over  the  one  that  held  hers,  and  sat 
there  quietly  waiting. 

The  minutes  came  to  seem  like  hours,  but 
Sissy  sat  motionless  and  Miss  Madigan  left  the 
room.  Presently  an  eery  humming  came  from 
Split's  lips.  Then,  mechanically,  Sissy's  fin- 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA     109 

gers  picked  out  on  the  spread  the  simple  little 
melody  Split  sang  as  in  a  dream. 

"Play  it,"  the  sick  girl  whispered,  pushing 
away  the  hand  she  had  held. 

Sissy  jumped  as  though  she  had  been  dis 
covered  indulging  in  gross  and  inexcusable 
sentimentality.  She  looked  down  at  Split 
with  a  puzzled,  sheepish  smile,  wondering  how 
long  it  had  been  since  her  sister  had  come  into 
the  real  world  out  of  that  fantastic  one  where 
marvelous  things  might  happen. 

"Play  it!"  repeated  Split,  fretfully. 

Sissy  rose  and  walked  softly  into  the  front 
room.  She  fancied  if  she  took  a  long  time,  yet 
appeared  about  to  obey,  Split  would  forget 
her  desire  and,  left  alone  in  the  silence,  would 
fall  asleep.  She  opened  the  piano  softly  and 
pulled  out  the  stool.  Then  leisurely  she  pre 
tended  to  arrange  the  light  and  the  piano- 
cover. 

Split,  quieted  by  her  apparent  compliance, 
lay  back  with  a  sigh  of  content.  Her  mind, 
whose  very  apprehension  of  the  delirium  had 
excluded  other  thoughts,  dwelt  now  restfully 
upon  the  combination  of  easy  mental  effort  and 
soothing  melody  her  "piece"  meant  to  her. 
Besides,  she  was  ordering  her  junior  about, 
using  her  illness  as  a  club  to  beat  down  remon- 


110  THE  MADIGANS 

strance.  Split  was  really  on  the  way  to  being 
herself  again. 

After  a  bit  she  found  that  she  was  almost 
dozing  off,  and  waked  with  an  indignant  start 
to  see  Sissy  stealing  softly  out  of  the  room. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  she  demanded. 
"Why  don't  you  play  it  when  I  tell  you  to?" 

For  an  instant  Sissy  rebelled.  Then  she 
looked  at  the  passionate  little  figure  sitting 
tensely  upright,  at  the  white  fever-circle  about 
the  dry  lips,  at  the  short  hair  and  the  unnatu 
rally  bright,  angry  eyes.  She  went  back  to  the 
piano,  sat  down,  and  with  her  foot  on  the  soft 
pedal,  that  Aunt  Anne  might  not  hear,  she 
began  to  play. 

The  melody  was  simple  and  light,  with  a  lit 
tle  break  in  its  sweetness.  Sissy's  touch  was 
childlike,  but  her  impressionable  temperament, 
quickened  by  the  strangeness  of  that  dark 
room  behind  her,  overflowed  into  the  melody 
her  fingers  brought  out.  The  accompanying 
bass  was  rhythmic,  and  the  nervous,  fevered 
child  found  mental  and  physical  occupation 
in  letting  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  pick  out 
its  detail  upon  the  pillow  which  she  had  lately 
thrown  in  a  passion  against  the  wall  because 
it  had  been  so  hot  and  she  so  miserably  uncom 
fortable. 


A  MERKY,   MERRY  ZINGARA     111 

Sissy  had  begun  the  second  part,  the  chang 
ing  bass  of  which  had  been  poor  Split's  pons 
asinorum.  It  was  the  part  to  which  Sissy  had 
always  given  a  dramatic  touch— partly  be 
cause,  it  being  simpler  music  than  she  was  ac 
customed  to,  she  could  safely  do  so,  and  partly 
because  it  irritated  Irene,  to  whom  the  most 
forthright  interpretation  was  difficult.  Her 
foot  slipped  now,  through  force  of  habit,  upon 
the  hard  pedal,  and  in  a  moment  she  heard  the 
whirring  of  Aunt  Anne's  skirts. 

"Sissy,  are  you  crazy,  you— "  she  heard 
behind  her,  and  then  there  came  a  sudden,  an 
unaccountable  stop. 

Sissy  turned.  Behind  and  above  Miss  Madi- 
gan  towered  tall  old  Dr.  Murchison.  He  had 
come  back,  as  usual,  up  the  long  flight  of  steps, 
for  his  forgotten  spectacles.  One  of  his  hands 
was  clapped  with  good-humored  firmness  over 
the  lady's  mouth;  the  other  was  pointing  to 
Split,  sleeping  like  a  Madigan  again,  while 
over  Aunt  Anne's  head  the  doctor  nodded  and 
bobbed  encouragingly  to  Sissy,  like  a  benig 
nant  musical  conductor  deprived  of  the  use  of 
his  arms. 

Sissy  turned  again  to  the  piano.  It  was  a 
beautiful  opportunity  for  her  to  affect  disgust 
with  the  situation;  to  register  a  silent,  but  ex- 


112  THE  MADIGANS 

pressive,  exception  to  being  compelled  to  en 
tertain  Irene;  and  to  pose,  not  only  before  her 
aunt  but  before  the  doctor,  too,  as  a  very  im 
portant  personage,  whose  services  were  in  ur 
gent  demand,  and  who  yielded  under  protest. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  too  happy. 
There  was  no  misconceiving  the  light  that  illu 
mined  the  doctor's  round,  rosy  face.  Some 
thing  her  undisciplined,  childish  imagination 
had  been  coquetting  with,  as  an  untried  experi 
ence,  though  never  admitting  its  full,  dread 
significance,  was  carried  out  of  her  horizon  by 
the  shining  look  of  success  in  old  Murchison's 
face;  something  that  shook  her  strong  little 
body  with  a  long  shiver,  as  she  realized,  in  the 
second  when  she  could  almost  feel  the  lift  of 
its  dark  wings  taking  flight,  the  thing  that 
might  have  been. 

So  Sissy  played  "In  Sweet  Dreams "  "with 
expression. ' ' 

Later  she  played  it,  and  over  and  over  again, 
with  the  salt  tears  trickling  down  her  nose  and 
splashing  on  the  keys ;  played  it  with  tired,  fat 
fingers  and  a  rebellious,  burning  heart.  But 
this  was  during  Split's  convalescence— a 
reign  of  terror  for  the  whole  household;  for 
to  the  natural  taste  she  possessed  for  bullying, 


A   MERRY,   MERRY  ZINGARA     113 

Split  Madigan  then  added  the  whims  and 
caprices  of  the  invalid,  who  uses  her  weak 
nesses  as  a  cat  of  a  hundred  tails  with  which 
to  scourge  her  victims  into  compliance. 

She  was  loath  to  get  well,  this  tyrannical, 
hot-tempered,  short-haired  Zingara,  who  led 
her  people  such  a  merry  dance,  and  she  left  the 
self-indulgent  land  of  convalescence  and  the 
bed  in  the  big  back  room  with  regret. 


THE  SHUT-UPS 


THE   SHUT-UPS 

IT  was  an  early-morning  rite  practised  by  the 
twins,  its  performance  hidden  from  every 
body  but  each  other,  to  see  whether  Dr.  Murchi- 
son's  prophecy  had  come  true. 

"There  were  once  two  little  girls— twins,7' 
began  the  old  doctor,  significantly,  the  day  Bep 
and  Foni  were  vaccinated,  after  battling  des 
perately  against  precedence,  in  the  doctor 's 
very  office.  "Now  all  twins  love  each  other 
dearly." 

The  twins  looked  at  him  pityingly.  To  be  so 
old  and  so  ignorant! 

"Yes,  they  do,"  he  insisted.  "Everybody 
knows  they  're  fonder  of  each  other  than  the 
closest  sisters." 

Bep  glanced  at  Fom  and  Fom  looked  at  Bep ; 
there  wa,s  something  almost  Chinese  in  the 
irony  of  their  eyes;  they  knew  just  how  fond 
of  each  other  sisters  can  be !  But  they  politely 
suppressed  their  incredulous  grins. 

117 


118  THE  MADIGANS 

"Well,"  resumed  the  old  doctor,  realizing 
how  lacking  in  conviction  his  comparison  might 
seem  to  a  Madigan,  "well,  these  twins  were 
the  exception :  they  did  not  love  each  other. ' ' 

There  was  an  interested  movement  from 
Bep. 

"They  hated  each  other." 

Fom  looked  up  eagerly ;  there  was  something 
human  ahout  such  a  tale.  She  felt  her  respect 
for  Dr.  Murchison  reviving. 

"They  fought  from  morning  till  night. 
There  was  never  a  moment's  peace  when  the 
two  were  together.  Each  was  so  jealous  of  the 
other  that  she  would  rather  do  without,  herself, 
than  share  with  her  twin.  It  was  disgraceful." 

The  twins  leaned  forward,  charmed. 

The  doctor  looked  over  his  spectacles  at 
them ;  there  was  no  mistaking  the  effect  he  had 
produced.  "Everybody  warned  them  that  un 
less  they  stopped  squabbling,  something  dread 
ful  would  happen  to  them.  But  they  never  be 
lieved  it  till  one  day—" 

The  twins  held  their  breath.  Dr.  Murchison 
went  to  the  library  and  took  out  a  book.  He 
knew  the  value  of  a  dramatic  pause. 

"—till  one  day  they  waked  up  in  the  morn 
ing  and  found  that  they  were— stuck— fast— to 
gether— for  life !  Everything  the  dark  one  had 


THE  SHUT-UPS  119 

she  just  had  to  share  with  her  twin.  And  every 
where  she  went  her  lazy  blonde  sister  had  to 
go,  too.  People  made  up  a  terrible  name  for 
them.  They  called  them  "—he  lowered  his 
voice  to  the  apologetic  tone  one  has  for  not 
quite  proper  subjects— "  the  *  Siamese  Twins/ 
and — if  you  don't  believe  me,  here  's  their  pic 
ture  ! ' '  With  a  quick  movement  he  opened  the 
book  before  them. 

The  twins'  faces  went  gray;  in  that  second 
they  even  looked  alike,  so  tense  were  both  with 
the  same  emotion.  Instinctively  they  made  a 
swift  motion,  a  dumb  prayer  for  sympathy, 
toward  each  other;  then  as  swiftly  shuddered 
apart  as  though  temporary  contact  might  be 
come  lifelong  bondage. 

But  as  the  months  went  by  and  they  remained 
mercifully  unattached  (though  battling  still  in 
their  double  capacity  of  Madigans  and  twins), 
they  almost  outgrew  their  credulity;  yet  still, 
on  occasions,  observed  the  morning  ceremony 
of  self -inspection. 

In  fact,  though,  nothing  held  them  in  peace 
together  except  sleep,  when  nature  must  have 
reunited  them  in  dreams;  for,  no  matter  in 
what  positions  they  were  relatively  when  they 
closed  their  eyes,  morning  found  their  arms 
about  each  other,  their  breath  intermingled, 


120  THE  MADIGANS 

their  little  bodies  intercurved  like  well-packed 
sardines. 

On  their  birthday  morning— the  twins  were 
born  on  Christmas— Fom  waked  very  early, 
alarmed  to  find  Bep's  arm  about  her.  She 
never  remembered  in  the  morning  that  at 
night  her  last  hazy  thought  had  been  to  reach 
for  it,  pull  down  the  sleeve  of  its  nightgown, 
and  cuddle  close  to  her  twin.  She  threw  it 
from  her  now  with  unusual  violence,  and,  sit 
ting  up  in  bed,  slipped  off  her  gown  that  she 
might  closely  examine  her  right  side— the  side 
that  had  been  nearest  Bep. 

The  blonde  twin  woke  while  this  process  was 
going  on,  and  its  dread  significance  shook  the 
haze  of  slumber  from  her  eyes.  She,  too, 
slipped  her  gown  from  her  shoulders  and, 
shivering  with  the  cold,  passed  an  apprehensive 
hand  along  her  left  ribs. 

"Do  you?"  she  whispered. 

"N-no.  I  don't  think  so.  I— I  dreamed  that 
it  was  there,  though.  Do  you?  " 

An  assenting  shudder  shook  Bep's  body. 

"Where— oh,  where?  I  don't  believe  it!" 
cried  Fom.  "You  're  just  a  'f raid-cat  trying 
to  frighten  me." 

Bep  pointed  to  her  side.  There  it  was  un 
mistakably—a  round  black-and-blue  mark. 


THE  SHUT-UPS  121 

A  wail  escaped  Florence.  "Oh,  dear!  Oh, 
dear!"  she  cried,  "what  in  the  world  shall  we 
do?" 

Bep  did  not  answer.  She  sat  stupefied,  star 
ing  at  the  evidence  of  calamity. 

"If  it  's  commenced  on  you,  it  's  bound  to 
commence  on  me  before  long.  I  wonder— how 
fast  it  grows!" 

Bep  shook  her  head.  ' ' It  was  n't  there  when 
I  went  to  sleep." 

"If  it  grows  on  you  toward  me,  and  on  me 
toward  you  that  quick,  why,  in  a  week— we  '11 
be— stuck  fast— won't  we?" 

Bep  nodded  miserably. 

"Some  morning,"  mourned  Fom,  wriggling 
unhappily,  "we  '11  wake  and  it  '11  be  all  done. 
You  '11  just  have  to  study  hard,  Bessie  Madi- 
gan,  and  be  in  my  class  in  school;  I  won't  go 
back  into  the  mixed  primary— I  just  won't! 
Oh,  Bep,  why  will  you  put  your  arm  around 
me  at  night?" 

"I  don't.  I  always  go  to  sleep  with  my  back 
to  you.  You  know  I  do.  And  in  the  morning, 
the  first  thing  I  know  you  're  flinging  my  arm 
off.  I  believe  you  pull  my  arm  over  you  your 
self.  I  believe  you  want  to  get  stuck  together 
and  be  Chemise  Twins !"  Bep  scolded  tearfully, 
with  her  usual  ill  luck  with  unfamiliar  words. 


122  THE  MADIGANS 

There  was  a  sorrow-smitten  pause. 

' 'I  say,  Beppy,"  the  termination  was  a  sign 
of  sudden  good  humor  in  Fom,  "did  n't  you 
tumble  down  yesterday  when  you  and  Bombey 
Forrest  were  driving  the  Grayson  kids  round 
the  block  in  your  relay  race  ? ' ' 

The  light  of  hope  leaped  up  in  Bessie's  eyes. 
"Could  it  be  that!" 

1 1  Of  course  it  could ;  it  is,  you  silly ! ' ' 

"I  'm  not  a  silly.  You  were  scared  your 
self,"  retorted  the  blonde  twin,  relieved  but 
pugnacious. 

"Pooh!  I  only  pretended,  to  frighten  you," 
jeered  Fom. 

"Not  much  you  did  n't.  I  ain't  anybody's 
dope." 

"Anybody's  what?" 

"Anybody's  dope,"  answered  Bep,  uncer 
tainly;  she  knew  how  little  words  were  to  be 
trusted. 

"What  's  'dope"?"  demanded  Florence. 

"Why— what  Kate  said  yesterday." 

An  enjoying  giggle  came  from  Sissy's  bed. 
She  had  waked.  "Dupe,  you  goosy—dupe!" 
she  chuckled. 

"Yah!  Yah!"  sneered  Fom,  happy  in  her 
twin's  discomfiture. 

Bep    blushed    with    mortification.      "Don't 


THE  SHUT-UPS  123 

you  trophy  over  me,  Fom  Madigan ! ' '  she  cried 
wrathfully. 

Sissy's  giggle  became  a  shout  of  laughter, 
and  straightway  she  sallied  forth,  benight- 
gowned  as  she  was,  to  carry  the  news  of  Bep's 
latest  to  the  Madigans — while  Bep,  aware  that 
she  had  Partingtoned  again,  without  knowing 
just  how,  cried  furiously  after  her :  "I  did  n't 
say  it!  I  did  n't!" 

Bep's  talent  was  dear  to  the  Madigans. 
They  seized  upon  each  blunder  she  made,  and 
held  it  up,  shrinking  and  bare,  under  the  light 
of  their  laughter-loving  eyes.  They  ridiculed 
it  interminably,  and  were  unflaggingly  enter 
tained  by  it,  repeating  it  for  the  edification  of 
each  new-comer  so  often  and  so  faithfully  that 
from  conscious  mimicry  they  turned  to  use  of 
it  without  quotation-marks,  till,  insensibly,  at 
last  it  was  received  into  their  vocabulary— 
which  fact,  by  the  way,  made  the  Madigan 
dialect  at  times  difficult  for  strangers  to 
master. 

For  instance,  the  rare  rainy  days  in  Nevada 
were  always  "glummy"  among  Madigans, 
because  the  blonde  twin  had  once  been  so 
affected  by  their  gloom  that  she  spelled  it 
that  way.  An  over-credulous  person  was  a 
"sucher"  since  the  day  she  had  written  it  so. 


124  THE  MADIGANS 

Jack  Cody  lived  in  the  "vikinty"  of  their 
house,  because  Bep  Partington  had  so  decreed. 
11  Don't  greed "  had  become  a  classic  since  the 
day  Aunt  Anne  issued  her  infamous  ukase, 
compelling  that  twin  who  (wilfully  speculat 
ing  upon  her  sister's  envy)  kept  goodies  to  the 
last  to  divide  said  last  precious  morsel  with 
the  gloating  other.  And  the  Madigan  who 
(taking  base  advantage  of  the  fact  that  Bep 
was  at  an  age  when  to  bite  into  a  hard  red 
winter  apple  was  to  leave  a  shaky  tooth  be 
hind)  obligingly  took  the  first  bite,  but  made 
that  bite  include  nearly  half  the  apple— that 
rapacious  betrayer  of  confiding  helplessness 
deserved  to  be  called  a  harpy.  But  she  was  n't; 
she  was  known  as  "  a  regular  harper ! ' ' 

The  Madigans  trooped  back  into  the  twins' 
room  in  a  body  to  "trophy"  over  Bep,  whose 
double  misfortune  it  was  not  only  to  be  a 
Partington,  but  to  strenuously  deny  her  kin 
ship  with  the  family  of  that  name.  Bessie 
Madigan  could  not  be  got  to  admit  that  she 
had  ever  misused  a  word.  And  though  the 
expressions  she  coined  became  part  of  Madi 
gan  history,  though  each  piece  was  stamped 
undeniably  by  poor  Bep  her  awkward  mark, 
she  never  ceased  insisting  that  they  were  coun 
terfeit,  issued  for  the  express  purpose  of  dis- 


THE  SHUT-UPS  125 

crediting  her  well-known  familiarity  with  ele 
gant  English. 

Yet  she  it  was  who  had  first  miscalled  her 
shadow  a  "  shabby ";  who  had  asked  to  be 
"merinded  to  merember,"  like  her  absent- 
minded  Aunt  Anne;  and  who  had  uncon 
sciously  parodied  Split's  passionate  render 
ing  of  a  line  of  the  old  song,  "I  feel  his  pres 
ence  near ' '  into  ' i  I  feel  his  pleasant  sneer ' ' ! 

It  was  rarely  that  the  Madigans  could  keep 
peace  among  themselves  long  enough  to  make 
an  onslaught  in  a  body.  But  when  they  did, 
the  lone  victim  of  their  attack  knew  better  than 
to  struggle  against  her  fate.  Poor  Bep,  her 
protests  borne  down,  all  her  old  sins  of  diction 
raked  up  and,  joined  to  the  new  ones,  mar 
shaled  against  her,  became  sulky.  She  turned 
her  back  upon  the  enemy  and  retreated  to  a 
corner  to  find  out  what  Santa  Glaus  and  her 
own  particular  patron  saint  had  to  offer  for 
the  double  celebration. 

There  was  a  dictionary  from  Kate— an 
added  insult.  But,  to  compensate,  there  was  a 
whole  orange  from  Aunt  Anne,  a  bag  of  Chi 
nese  nuts  from  Wong,  and  from  Split  and 
Sissy  (a  separate  donation  from  each)  an 
undivided  half-interest  in  the  white  kitten 
known  as  Spitfire. 


126  THE  MADIGANS 

When  she  had  summed  up  the  gifts  of  the 
gods  to  herself,  Bep's  eyes  turned  quickly  to 
Fom's  pile. 

There  was  an  assortment  of  hair-ribbons, 
more  or  less  the  worse  for  wear,  from  Kate, 
whose  braids  were  coiled  around  her  head 
these  days.  (Bep  did  n't  envy  her  twin  these, 
for  the  excellent  reason  that  a  back-comb  was  all 
that  was  necessary  to  keep  her  short  blonde 
hair  in  order.)  Then  there  was,  from  Sissy, 
a  pen-wiper,  whose  cruelly  twisted  shape  was 
a  reflection  of  that  needlewoman's  agonies  in 
its  composition;  upon  it  were  embroidered 
figures  and  colors  of  things  never  seen  on  sea 
or  land.  (Fom  might  have  that.)  From 
Split— but  Bep  knew,  of  course,  what  there 
was  from  Split.  Every  year  regularly,  since 
the  second  of  the  Madigans  had  put  away  child 
ish  things,  she  had  bestowed  upon  her  faithful 
retainer  her  favorite  doll  Dora, — the  large  one, 
with  waxen  head  and  dark-brown  tresses,— 
only  to  take  it  back  at  the  first  symptom  of 
revolt,  for  a  caprice,  or  merely  to  feel  her 
power.  She  was  an  Indian  giver,  was  Split. 
(Fom  might  have  Dora,  Bep  said  to  herself, 
as  long  as  she  could  keep  her.) 

But  then  Fom,  too,  had  a  large,  fair,  yellow 
orange  and  a  bag  of  strange  candies  from 
Chinatown.  As  to  these  . 


THE  SHUT-UPS  127 

The  twins  must  be  pardoned,  but  circum 
stances  had  soured  them.  They  had  been 
cheated  out  of  either  a  birthday  or  a  Christmas 
—they  had  not  decided  which  was  the  crueler 
wrong,  so  had  not  yet  adopted  and  proclaimed 
their  grievance.  Besides  this  sorrow,  each,  by 
an  interfering  and  unprovoked  intrusion,  had 
defrauded  the  other  of  the  child's  inalienable 
right  to  the  center  of  the  stage  at  least  once 
a  year.  And  when  one  remembers  how  crowded 
was  the  Madigan  stage  with  jealous  perform 
ers,  any  actor  at  all  desirous  of  an  opportu 
nity  must  sympathize  with  them. 

It  was  not  etiquette  for  the  twins  to  remem 
ber  each  other's  birthday  with  a  gift,  one  rea 
son  being  that  they  were  incapable  of  such  a 
piece  of  hypocrisy.  Another  was  that  it  would 
have  seemed  too  like  the  rigid  reciprocity  of 
the  Misses  Blind-Staggers,  whom  it  had  been 
their  custom  to  parody  since  the  day  they  had 
been  invited  down  to  the  cottage  to  see  those 
ladies'  strictly  mutual  Christmas  presents. 
They  played  "From  Maude  to  Etta"  and 
"  From  Etta  to  Maude,"  as  they  called  it;  Fom 
handing  to  Bep,  with  great  ceremony,  a  shoe, 
a  stocking,  or  any  other  thing  traveling  in 
pairs,  with  the  legend  "From  Maude  to  Etta," 
and  receiving  in  return  the  mate  of  said  shoe 
or  stocking,  "  From  Etta  to  Maude." 


128  THE  MADIGANS 

As  for  Francis  Madigan,  his  daughters  ap 
preciated  the  fact  that  a  girl's  birthday  could 
be  looked  upon  only  as  a  day  of  wrath  and 
mourning;  it  came  to  be  considered  delicate, 
therefore,  to  mention  the  matter  in  his  pres 
ence.  Christmas,  of  course,  was  "  nonsense  " 
—a  blanket  term  of  disapproval  behind  which 
no  one  peered  for  reasons  for  its  applica 
tion. 

On  Miss  Madigan  anniversaries  acted  as  a 
stimulant  to  an  already  sufficiently  fecund  pen. 
They  awakened  in  her  that  sense  of  responsi 
bility  for  her  nieces'  future,  which  nothing 
but  an  exceptionally  heartrending  letter  of  ap 
peal  for  financial  assistance  for  them  could  put 
comfortably  to  sleep  again. 

Out  in  the  woodshed  a  disemboweled  chest  of 
drawers  had  been  turned  into  an  apartment- 
house  for  dolls.  All  the  dolls  that  had  dwelt 
in  the  Madigan  family  since  Kate's  babyhood 
(with  the  exception  of  Split's  Dora,  whom 
Fom,  according  to  the  preordained  penchant 
of  mothers,  loved  best  because  for  her  sake 
she  suffered  most)  had  descended  to  the  twins. 
On  the  top  floor  Mrs.  Guy  St.  Gerald  Glair 
lived  with  her  husband  and  an  only  daughter. 
Mrs.  Clair  was  an  elegant  matron,  quite  new, 


THE  SHUT-UPS  129 

a  small  blonde  who  could  turn  her  head.  Flor 
ence  's  skilful  fingers  kept  this  lady  most  beau 
tifully  gowned.  And  Split— whose  favorite 
of  the  small-fry  dolls  she  had  once  been— still 
remembered  her  fondly,  and  passed  over  to 
Fom  the  most  wonderful  patches.  These  she 
got  from  Jack  Cody,  the  washerwoman's  son, 
who  bribed  his  mother  by  promises  of  good 
conduct  to  beg  samples  of  their  gowns  from  her 
aristocratic  patrons. 

Mr.  Guy  St.  Gerald  Glair  was  an  unfortu 
nate  gentleman,  tall,  low-spirited,  loose- 
jointed,  with  fixed  blue  eyes  and  knobby  black 
hair.  His  melancholy,  Bep  was  assured,  was 
due  to  two  things— the  superiority  of  his  wife 
in  the  matter  of  a  movable  head,  and  the  im 
possibility  of  ever  getting  a  pair  of  trousers 
that  would  come  near  to  him  in  the  seat  and 
stay  away  from  him  at  the  ankle.  Fom's 
theory— a  hypothesis  that  enraged  Bep— was 
that  Mrs.  Guy  St.  Gerald  was  the  wealthy 
member  of  the  family,  and  that  her  husband 
basely  envied  her  her  good  fortune.  She*  had 
a  way,  had  Fom,  of  carrying  on  imaginary  con 
versations  with  Mr.  Clair  upholding  this  idea, 
which  made  her  twin  long  to  rend  her,  and  the 
doll  too,  limb  from  limb. 

"Ah,   Mr.   Clair!     Yes,   thank  you.     Mrs. 


130  THE  MADIGANS 

Clair  not  in?  ...  I  'm  sorry.  Gone  off  to 
Newport,  has  she,  to  sell  her  marble  palace? 
What  about  the  one  on  Fifth  Avenue?  .  .  . 
You  don't  say!  Making  it  bigger?  Well, 
well !  And  made  a  million  in  stocks,  too.  How 
delightful !  You  wish  that  you  had  some  money 
—yes,  I  suppose—  " 

"He  does  not!  He  does  not!"  The  inter 
ruption  came  fiercely  from  Bep.  "You  talk 
to  your  own  doll  and  leave  mine  alone." 

"Pouf !  If  you  're  afraid  he  '11  tell  me  how 
poor  he  is—" 

"He  ain't  poor." 

6 1  What  does  he  wear  such  trousers  for,  then  ? 
Tell  me  that!" 

Bep  looked  unutterable  things  at  her  twin. 
"Just  you  make  men's  clothes  for  a  while, 
Fom  Madigan,  and  see  how  't  is  yourself!" 
she  cried. 

6 '  Put  Mrs.  Clair  in  men 's  clothes  ? ' '  demanded 
Fom,  purposely  misunderstanding.  "I  'd  like 
to  see  myself!  The  very  richest  lady  in  New 
York  in  men's  clothes— why,  you  could  get 
arrested  for  that!" 

"I  '11  change—"  began  Bep,  quickly. 

"No,  thank  you.  You  could  n't  suit  Mrs. 
Clair.  She  's  that  particular  about  her 
things!" 


THE  SHUT-UPS  131 

4  *  Well,  just  the  same,  I  won't  make  men's 
clothes  any  more."  Bep  rolled  her  head 
threateningly. 

1 '  Going  to  let  Mr.  Clair  go  naked ? ' '  inquired 
Fom,  pleasantly.  "He  '11  have  to  be  sent  to 
the  poorhouse,  then. ' ' 

"He  sha'n't!  He  '11  go  to  bed  sick  first,  and 
then  Mrs.  Clair  '11  just  have  to  stay  home  in  an 
old  wrapper  and  nurse  him." 

"No;  she  '11  take  Anita  and  go  off  to  the 
country.  .  .  .  Are  you  so  sick,  Mr.  Clair?" 
began  Fom,  while  her  slower  twin  danced  with 
apprehension  of  the  outcome  of  this  one-sided 
dialogue.  "I  'm  awful  sorry.  Smallpox?  Oh, 
how  dreadful!  And  that  's  why  Mrs.  Clair 
and  Anita  have  gone — " 

"'T  ain't!  'T  ain't  smallpox!  'T  ain't! 
'T  ain't!  'T  ain't!"  Bep  hopped  about  on 
one  foot  in  her  excitement. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Fom,  calmly. 
"Are  you  the  doctor?" 

The  doctor  lived  in  the  flat  below.  He  was 
a  ready-dressed  gentleman,  still  stylish  if  a  bit 
seedy,  and  his  large  family  overflowed  down 
into  the  next  two  shelves.  He  was  summoned. 

"I  have  called  you,  doctor,"— began  Fom. 

"I  Ve  sent  for  you,  doctor,"— interrupted 
Bep. 


132  THE  MADIGANS 

"Well I"  exclaimed  Fom,  stiffly,  "I  think 
you  might  be  polite  enough  to  let  Mrs.  Clair 
speak  to  the  doctor  about  her  own  husband." 

"What  's  she  going  to  say?"  demanded  Bep. 

"How  should  I  know?"  asked  Fom,  airily; 
and  then,  hurrying  on,  while  she  made  Mrs., 
Clair  bow  low  before  the  ready-made  physi 
cian,  "I  am  Mrs.  Clair,  doctor,  the  rich  Mrs. 
Guy  St.  Gerald  Clair  who  has  all  the  money— ' ' 

"It  's  no  such  thing !  It  's  no  such  thing ! ' ' 
shrieked  Bep. 

"Well,  Miss  Florence  Madigan!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Clair  by  proxy,  "if  your  sister  Bessie 
ain't  the  rudest!" 

"I  '11  smash  her  if  she  says  that  again!" 
came  in  a  bellow  from  Bep. 

"You  touch  my  doll!"  Daringly  Fom 
placed  Mrs.  Clair  within  tempting  distance  of 
Bep's  hand. 

"Well— just  you  let  her  say  it  again!" 

"I  don't  need  to.  She  's  told  me,  so  now 
I  know  it." 

"You  may  go  down-stairs  again,  doctor. 
It  's  a  mistake, ' '  said  Bep,  addressing  the  medi 
cal  man.  (The  twins  always  tried  to  keep  up 
appearances  before  their  dolls.)  "Mr.  Clair 
—the  awfully  rich  Mr.  Guy  St.  Gerald  Clair— is 
not  sick  at  all.  But  you  can  send  your  bill 


THE  SHUT-UPS  133 

to  him  anyway,  he  won't  care.  It  must  have 
been  some  poor  relation  of  Mrs.  Glair's— she 
did  n't  have  a  dress  to  her  name  before  she 
married,  you  know." 

"Oh— oh!  Bessie  Madigan!" 
"Well,  she  did  n't,"  said  Bep,  stoutly. 
"I  '11   bet   you-I    '11   bet   you   a   shut-up. 
There!"     Cautious  Fom  rarely  hazarded  so 
great  a  stake;  but  she  felt  that  the  occasion 
demanded  something  adequate. 

"All  right;  I  '11  leave  it  to  Sissy."  It  was 
from  Sissy  that  Bep  had  inherited  Mr.  Glair. 
She  would  know. 

Laying    down    stiff   all-china    Anita    Glair, 
whose  shoes  she  was  painting  red  to  match 
her  sash,  Bep  followed  her  twin  into  the  house. 
But  the  omnivorous  Sissy  was  reading  ' '  The 
Boys  of  England"-a  thing  Sissy  loved  to  do; 
for  it  was  a  magazine  not  permitted  to  enter 
Mrs.  Peinbertoii  's  immaculate  house,  a  recom 
mendation   in   itself,    and,    besides,    Split,    to 
whom  Jack  Cody  had  loaned  it,  was  doubtless 
looking  all  over  for  it  at  this  very  moment. 
Lying  luxuriously  flat  upon  the  floor  and  eat 
ing  chocolate,  Sissy  had  just  got  to  that  part 
where  Jack  Harkaway  "with  one  flash  of  Abu 
Hadji's  ruby-incrusted  simitar  decapitated  the 
unfortunate  Arab,  and  Dick  Lightheart,  seizing 


134  THE  MADIGANS 

the  bewitching  Haidee,  had  mounted  his  horse ' ' 
—when  the  belligerent  twins  found  her. 

1 '  Now,  let  me  say  it, ' '  began  Fom. 

"No;  you  won't  ask  it  fair.  .  .  .  Sissy,  tell 
me,  was  n  't  Mr.  — ' ' 

"Tra— la— la— la!"  sang  Fom,  shrilly, 
drowning  Bep's  voice. 

"  Say!  "  Sissy  looked  up.  Her  cheeks  were 
flaming  with  excitement,  for  any  bit  of  print, 
however  crude,  had  the  power  to  move  her  as 
reality  could  not.  At  eleven  she  shivered  and 
glowed  over  pseudo-sentiment,  while  a  tragedy 
in  the  mine — whose  tall  chimneys  she  could  see 
from  her  window— was  as  intangibly  distant 
and  irrelevant  as  weekly  statistics  of  the  su 
perintendent's  mining  reports. 

Her  juniors  harkened  respectfully;  but  nei 
ther  would  permit  the  other  to  ask  the  ques 
tion,  for  fear  of  its  revealing  the  nature  of 
the  answer  hoped  for.  So  they  withdrew  for 
a  period,  returning  with  the  following  query, 
which  Bep  allowed  Fom  to  put,  so  sure  was  she 
of  the  response: 

1  '  Did  or  did  not  Mrs.  Clair  ever  have  a  dress 
before  she  married  Mr.  Clair?" 

To  this  the  oracle  gave  answer : 

She  did  not,  for  how  could  she,  she  being  Mr. 
Glair's  second  wife;  his  first,  an  accomplished 


THE  SHUT-UPS  135 

lady,  but  all-solid  china,  having  fallen  from 
the  top  story  of  the  apartment-house  and 
smashed  herself  into  bits,  and  the  widower 
having  himself  accompanied  Sissy  and  Split 
to  the  shop  to  select  her  successor,  whose  first 
gown  was,  of  course,  a  heavy  mourning  robe. 

Bep  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  content.  She  ran 
back  to  the  woodshed  so  relieved  that,  although 
she  had  won  a  valuable  shut-up,  she  did  not 
care  to  "  trophy "  in  her  victory.  Fom  fol 
lowed.  But  her  grief  for  Mrs.  Clair  was  bit 
terer  even  than  her  own  disappointment. 

"I  want  the  Smith  twins, "  she  said  stiffly, 
when  they  got  back  to  the  dolls'  sky-scraper. 
And  Bep  understood. 

The  Smith  twins  were  an  invention  of  tech 
nical  Fom's  that  had  become  an  institution 
with  herself  and  her  playmate.  Two  tiny  china 
dolls  dressed  in  baby  long  clothes  (the  better 
to  hide  the  fact  that  they  were  legless),  the  one 
with  pink,  the  other  with  a  blue  sash,  were 
brought  up  from  the  lowest  story,  where  bro 
ken-nosed  Mrs.  Smith  lived  with  her  family  of 
cripples. 

They  were  dolls  of  bad  omen,  these  two,  but 
following  instead  of  prophesying  a  storm. 
When  it  became  absolutely  necessary  for  one 
Madigan  twin  to  be  "mad"  at  the  other,  and 


136  THE  MADIGANS 

yet  that  the  business  of  playing  be  uninter 
rupted,  the  Smith  twins  invariably  made  their 
appearance.  They  were  supposed  to  save 
one's  dignity;  in  reality,  they  lent  piquancy 
to  games  and  rendered  "making  up"  de 
lightful. 

Occasionally  Bep  and  Fom  did  disown  each 
other  and  adopt  a  chum  from  the  outside  world. 
One  Beulah,  known  as  ' '  Bombey, ' '  Forrest  was 
always  ready  obligingly  to  serve  either  or  both 
of  them  in  the  capacity  of  dearest  friend.  But 
other  playmates  were  tame  after  being  accus 
tomed  to  a  Madigan;  and  each  twin  was  so 
jealously  afraid  of  the  other's  having  a  good 
time  without  her  that  she  spent  most  of  the 
period  of  estrangement  trying  to  spy  out  what 
the  other  and  her  interloping  companion  were 
doing. 

The  Smith  twins  were  easier. 

"Tell  Bep,"  said  Florence  to  the  pink- 
sashed  small  Smith,  "that  I  think  she  's  a 
nasty  mean  thing,  and  Mrs.  Clair  '11  never  for 
give  her." 

"Tell  Fom,"  returned  Bep,  with  spirit,  put 
ting  the  blue-sashed  Smith  baby  in  her  pocket 
as  a  sort  of  emergency  battery,  so  that  the 
wires  of  communication  might  be  set  up  at  any 
time  between  her  twin  and  herself,  "that  I 


THE  SHUT-UPS  137 

don't  care  a  'article  for  what  she  thinks.    And 
Mrs.  Glair's  nothing  but  a  beggar.    I  wonder 
that  Mr.  Clair  married  her!" 
The  war  was  on. 

Down  on  the  dump,  that  fascinating  mountain 
of  soft,  glittering  waste  rock,  the  godless  twins 
went  to  dig  on  Christmas  afternoom  The  min 
ing  operations  were  elaborate  that  they  pro 
jected  there,  particularly  after  Jack  Cody's 
brother  Peter  joined  them.  While  Peter  was 
rigging  up  windlasses  with  pieced-out  cord, 
Fom,  with  a  couple  of  tin  cups  purloined  from 
Wong's  kitchen,  brought  up  the  rock,  piling 
it  in  miniature  dumps  at  the  mouth  of  their 
shaft.  Bep  's  awkward  fingers  could  be  trusted 
only  with  the  preliminary  scooping  out  of  the 
ground  where  a  new  shaft  was  to  be  sunk. 

"Tell  Fom,"  she  said  to  the  blue-sashed 
Smith  twin  in  her  pocket,  "that  I  want  the 
scooper;  my  hands  are  all  sore." 

"Tell  Bep,"  returned  Fom,  quickly,  "that 
she  can't  have  it  till  Pete  an'  I  get  through 
running  our  drift." 

The  excuse  did  not  seem  legitimate  to  Bep, 
whose  grimy  hands  ached  to  the  finger-tips 
from  being  used  as  both  pick  and  shovel.  She 
made  a  dart  for  the  "scooper"— a  heavy  china 


138  THE  MADIGANS 

cup  which  had  been  smashed  in  so  fortunate  a 
manner  as  to  be  ideally  fitted  for  emptying 
ore  by  hand. 

But  Fom  was  slim,  and  quick  as  a  cat.  She 
threw  herself  bodily  upon  both  scooper  and 
pick— the  latter  an  old  fork  with  but  one  tine 
left.  Bep  promptly  threw  herself  on  top  of 
her  twin,  while  Peter,  a  laconic  lad,  calmly  set 
himself  to  rehabilitating  the  hind  wheel  of  a 
battered  tin  toy  express  which  served  as  a 
dump-cart. 

"Little  folks  should  n't  quarrel,"  suddenly 
said  a  slow  voice  above  the  struggling  arms 
and  legs  of  the  twins. 

Fom  looked  up,  still  pressing  her  body  hard 
against  the  tools  in  dispute,  while  Bep  got  to 
her  feet,  red-faced  and  panting.  "We  're  not 
quarreling,"  said  Florence,  calmly. 

Superintendent  Warren  Pemberton,  still  in 
his  oilskins  from  a  trip  down  the  mine,  looked 
down  at  her  and  gasped.  He  did  not  know  the 
Madigan  brunette  twin,  and  actually  thought 
she  was  lying.  But  Fom  was  never  known  to 
lie;  she  only  pettifogged. 

"You  're  not  quarreling!" 

"Nope." 

"Did  n't  I  see  you  with  my  own  eyes?"  he 
demanded,  piqued. 


THE  SHUT-UPS  139 

"People  don't  see  people  quarreling, "  said 
Fom,  didactically.  "They  hear  them." 

"Oh,  that  's  it!    Well,  did  n't  I  hear-" 

"No,  you  did  n't;  for  we  're  mad  and  don't 
speak  to  each  other." 

"But  you  're  not  quarreling?" 

"Nope,"  repeated  Fom,  stoutly,  "we  're 
not." 

Mr.  Pemberton  shook  his  head  helplessly. 
' l  What  are  you  doing  ? ' ' 

"I  'm  running  a  drift"— Fom  misunderstood 
the  drift  of  his  question— "from  the  Silver 
King  to  the  Diamond  Heart,  and  the  earth  keeps 
coming  down.  Then  Bep  tries  to  make  it  harder 
by  grabbing  for  the  tools  and— ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  timber!"  suggested  Pem 
berton,  gravely. 

"  'Cause  I  don't  have  to,"  answered  Fom, 
quite  as  seriously. 

"Oh,  you  don't!"  Pemberton,  a  man  with 
no  sense  of  humor,  had  been  unusually  expan 
sive;  but  he  shrank  angrily  into  himself  now, 
as  though  from  a  cold  douche.  It  took  some 
time  for  one  to  get  accustomed  to  Fom's  way 
of  instructing  authorities  upon  the  subjects 
which  they  were  supposed  to  know  most  about. 

"No,  that  's  silly,"  remarked  Fom,  su 
perbly.  "If  the  ground  's  sticky  enough,  and 


140  THE  MADIGANS 

you  're  riot  butter-fingered,"— with  an  insult 
ing  glance  at  Bep,— "you  can  manage  all 
right. " 

"But  I  'm  not  butter-fingered  and  I  always 
timber. ' '  Warren  Pemberton  was  a  slow  man, 
but  a  dogged  one ;  the  elusiveness  of  this  pert 
child  irritated  him. 

"That  's  'cause  you  don't  know  any  better," 
came  from  the  expert,  who  had  returned  to  her 
task,  the  excited  flourishes  of  her  uplifted  legs 
betraying  its  difficulties. 

"You  're  a  little  fool!"  declared  the  super 
intendent.  "Do  you  know  who  I  am?  My 
name  's  Pemberton,  and  I— 

"Why  don't  you  make  your  wife  leave 
Crosby  alone,  then?"  demanded  Fom,  without 
seeming  much  impressed. 

Warren  Pemberton  looked  down  upon  her 
little  body  with  an  expression  that  made  Bep 
wonder  why  he  refrained  from  stamping  upon 
it. 

"You  don't  think  Mrs.  Pemberton  knows  her 
business,  either?"  His  ruddy,  full  face  looked 
apoplectic. 

"Nope.  Sissy  says  if  she  was  Crosby  she  'd 
run  away  to  sea.  And  she  's  going  to  put  him 
up  to  it,  too,  if— ' 

But  Bep,  frightened  by  the  growing  anger  in 


THE  SHUT-UPS  141 

the  great  man 's  face,  interposed.  ' '  Shall  I  shut 
her  up  for  you,  Mr.  Pemberton  ?  ' '  she  asked. 

"What— what  d'  ye  say?  I  wish  to  God 
you  would,  or  that  somebody  could!" 

"Fom,"  said  Bep,  authoritatively,  "shut 
up!" 

Fom  jumped  to  her  feet.  There  was  appeal, 
wrath,  rebellion  in  her  crimson  face.  She 
opened  her  lips  as  if  to  protest. 

4  *  Shut  up,  Fom,"  repeated  Bep,  distinctly. 
"I  said  shut  up." 

There  came  a  deadly  silence.  Pemberton, 
in  the  act  of  stalking  ill-temperedly  away, 
turned  bewildered  to  regard  the  miracle. 

"Say,"  asked  Peter  Cody,  driven  to  speech 
by  curiosity.  "Say,  Fom,  do  you  let  your 
sister  boss  you  like  that?  I  thought  you  was 
twins. ' ' 

Fom  looked  appealingly  at  Bep.  If  Bep 
would  but  explain  the  nature  of  a  shut-up— its 
power  of  suddenly  depriving  one  of  speech; 
of  making  one  temporarily  dumb  in  the  very 
midst  of  a  sentence,  at  the  bidding  of  the  winner 
of  a  wager,  whenever,  wherever  the  caprice  to 
collect  the  debt  of  honor  occurred  to  her ! 

But  Bep,  after  accompanying  Mr.  Pember 
ton  a  few  steps,  striving  to  untell  him  what 
Fom  had  betrayed,  turned  her  attention  again 


142  THE  MADIGANS 

to  mining  matters.  She  knew  well  what  Fom's 
eyes  begged,  but  hid  her  head  in  the  Silver 
King,  whence  a  subterranean  giggle  came,  re 
vealing  her  enjoyment  of  the  situation. 

Fom's  stormy  eyes  filled  and  the  Silver 
King  and  the  Diamond  Heart  jigged  back  and 
forth  till  the  tears  splashed  down  and  cleared 
her  vision. 

<  <  Ho— cry-baby ! ' '  called  Peter  Cody.  Peter 
was  one  of  those  gallant  gentlemen  who  are 
never  afraid  of  a  playmate  when  some  one  else 
has  demonstrated  that  he  can  be  downed. 

At  the  taunt,  a  revengeful  passion  seized 
Fom,  standing  there— a  lingual  Samson  shorn 
of  her  tongue,  two  dirty  channels  plowed  down 
her  cheeks  by  her  tears.  Deliberately  lift 
ing  her  foot,  she  brought  it  down,  stamping 
with  all  her  might  again  and  again. 

The  soft,  loosely  packed  earth  slid  smoothly 
down.  The  Diamond  Heart  caved  in  com 
pletely,  the  almost  finished  connecting  tunnel 
was  a  wreck,  and  the  still  rolling,  moist  gravel 
swept  over  Bep's  head,  filling  up  the  Silver 
King  clear  to  the  surface. 

By  the  time  Peter  had  realized  their  utter 
ruin,  and  Bep  had  shaken  the  particles  of  sand 
and  gravel  from  her  hair  and  ears  and  throat, 
Fom  was  nowhere  in  sight. 


THE  SHUT-UPS  143 

"Let  's  kill  her,"  suggested  Bep. 

"Shall  we?"  asked  Peter,  with  an  air  of 
stern  justice. 

They  debated  the  question,  fully  realizing 
the  make-believe  of  it,  yet  taking  pleasure  in 
at  least  the  mention  of  revenge. 

Suddenly  Bep  gave  a  cry  of  triumph  and 
picked  up  something  from  the  ground. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Peter. 

"It  's  Fom's  doll.  It  must  have  dropped 
out  of  her  pocket  when  she  was  digging  and 
sassing  Mr.  Pemberton.  We  '11  play  there  's 
been  an  accident,— a  cave  in  the  mine,— and 
the  doll  '11  be  buried  alive  down  there. 
Would  n't  Fom  howl!" 

She  rolled  up  her  sleeve  and  thrust  a  round 
arm  far  down  in  the  clean,  moist  gravel,  leav 
ing  the  poor  Smith  twin  in  the  murderous 
depths  of  the  Silver  King.  Then  both  set  to 
work.  Poor  Fom,  half-way  down  the  dump, 
beside  the  mysterious  "flush"  of  seething, 
boiling,  foaming  waste  water,  whose  tide  went 
low  or  high  with  the  breathing  of  the  great 
mine,  heard  a  laugh  or  a  whistle  now  and  then ; 
and  a  miserable  feeling  of  loneliness  oppressed 
her.  But  she  lay  there  sobbing  quietly,  while 
on  top  the  valiant  rescuers  emptied  the  mines, 
carried  on  conversations  with  the  entombed 


144  THE  MADIGANS 

men,  and  at  last,  with  a  fine  pretense  of  amaze 
ment  and  grief,  discovered  the  dead  miner. 
Reverently  he  was  borne  to  the  surface,  Bep 
holding  the  bucket  steady  while  Peter  wound 
the  cord.  And  then  they  buried  the  unfortu 
nate  man.  There  was  an  imposing  funeral,  and 
the  three-wheeled  dump-cart  was  filled  with 
imaginary  mourners.  At  the  grave  hymns 
were  sung  by  Bep,  when  she  could  be  spared 
from  mourner's  duties,  and  a  prayer  by  Peter 
concluded  the  impressive  services. 

It  had  been  Fom's  intention  to  lie  there 
half-way  down  the  dump  till  she  died  of  hun 
ger—when  Bep  would  be  sorry  for  her  cruel 
treatment.  The  self-pitying  tears  were  in 
Florence's  eyes  as  she  thought  out  the  details 
of  Bep's  grief,  and  the  unanimous  reproba 
tion  of  the  family  for  the  bad  blonde  twin. 
But  she  grew  hungrier  and  hungrier,  and  at 
last  resolved  to  go  home  to  lunch. 

First,  though,  she  would  see  how  much  dam 
age  she  had  done  in  her  short-lived  anger,  for 
her  heart  was  sore  when  she  thought  how  proud 
they  two  had  been  of  their  mines.  She  scram 
bled  to  the  top.  There  was  the  new  shaft,  the 
Tomboy,  almost  completed.  The  Diamond 
Heart  was  in  working  order.  Peter's  dex 
terous  fingers  had  triumphed  over  the  shifting 


THE  SHUT-UPS  145 

rock,  and  he  had  modestly  taken  a  hint  as  to 
timbering  from  Warren  Pemberton.  The  tun 
nel  was  an  accomplished  fact,  while  over  the 
frail  hoisting-works  of  the  Silver  King  a  tiny 
flag— a  corner  torn  from  Bep's  handkerchief 
—fluttered  at  half-mast. 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE 

IN  her  heart  Irene  was  confident  that,  though 
among  the  Madigans,  she  was  not  of  them. 
The  color  of  her  hair,  the  shape  of  her  nose, 
the  tempestuousness  of  her  disposition,  the 
difficulty  she  experienced  in  fitting  her  restless 
and  encroaching  nature  into  what  was  merely 
one  of  a  number  of  jealously  frontiered  inter 
stices  in  a  large  family— all  this  forbade  tame 
acceptance  on  her  part  of  so  ordinary  and  hum 
ble  an  origin  as  Francis  Madigan's  fatherhood 
connoted. 

' '  No, ' '  she  said  firmly  to  herself  the  day  she 
and  Florence  were  see-sawing  in  front  of  the 
woodshed  after  school,  "he  's  only  just  my 
foster-father;  that  's  all." 

How  this  foster-father—she  loved  the  term, 
it  sounded  so  delightfully  haughty— had  ob 
tained  possession  of  one  whose  birthright  would 
place  her  in  a  station  so  far  above  his  own, 
she  had  not  decided.  But  she  was  convinced 
that,  although  poor  and  peculiar  and  incapable 

149 


150  THE  MADIGANS 

of  comprehending  the  temperament  and  neces 
sities  of  the  nobly  born,  he  was,  in  his  limited 
way,  a  worthy  fellow.  And  she  had  long  ago 
resolved  that  when  her  real  father  came  for 
her,  she  would  bend  graciously  and  forgivingly 
down  from  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  to  say 
good-by  to  poor  old  Madigan. 

' i  Thank  you  very,  very  much,  Mr.  Madigan, ' ' 
she  would  sweetly  say,  ' '  for  all  your  care.  My 
father,  the  Count,  will  never  forget  what  you 
have  done  for  his  only  child.  As  for  myself,  I 
promise  you  that  I  will  have  an  eye  upon  your 
little  girls.  I  am  sure  his  Grace  the  Duke  will 
gladly  do  anything  for  them  that  I  recommend. 
I  am  very  much  interested  in  little  Florence, 
and  shall  certainly  come  for  her  some  day  in  my 
golden  chariot  to  take  her  to  my  castle  for  a 
visit,  because  she  is  such  a  well-behaved  child 
and  knew  me,  in  her  childish  way,  for  a  noble 
lady  in  disguise.  Cecilia!  Which  one  is  that? 
Oh,  the  one  her  sisters  call  Sissy!  She  needs 
disciplining  sadly,  Mr.  Madigan,  sadly.  Much 
as  he  loves  me,  my  father,  the  Prince,  would  not 
care  to  have  me  know  her — as  she  is  now*  But 
she  will  improve,  if  you  will  be  very,  very  strict 
with  her.  Good-by !  Good-by,  all !  No,  I  shall 
not  forget  you.  Be  good  and  obey  your  aunty. 
Good-by !"" 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE       151 

The  milk-white  steeds  would  fly  down  the 
steep,  narrow,  unpaved  streets.  On  each  side 
would  stand  the  miners,  bowing,  hat  in  hand, 
hurrahing  for  the  great  Emperor  and  his  beau 
tiful  daughter— she  who  had  so  strangely  lived 
among  them  under  the  name  of  Split  Madi- 
gan.  They  would  speak,  realizing  now,  of  cer 
tain  royal  traits  they  had  always  noted  in  her 
— her  haughty  spirit  that  never  brooked  an 
insult,  her  independence,  her  utter  fearlessness, 
the  reckless  bravery  of  a  long  line  of  kings, 
and — and  even  that  very  disinclination  for 
study  which  they  had  stupidly  fancied  indicated 
that  Sissy  Madigan  was  her  superior!  What 
would  Princess  Irene  want  with  vulgar  frac 
tions,  a  common  denominator,  and  such  low  sub 
jects  ! 

i  i  What  makes  you  wrinkle  up  your  nose  that 
way,  Split!  "  Florence's  voice  broke  in  com- 
plainingly  on  her  sister 's  reverie.  She  glanced 
up  the  incline  of  the  see-saw  to  the  height 
whence  Irene  looked  down,  physically  as  well  as 
socially,  upon  her  faithful  retainer  and  the 
straggling  little  town. 

Irene  did  not  answer.  She  was  busy  dream 
ing,  and  her  dreams  were  of  the  turned-up-nose 
variety. 

" Don't,   Split!     It  makes  you  look  like  a 


152  THE  MADIGANS 

—what  Sissy  just  now  called  you."  The 
smaller  sister 's  eyes  fell,  as  though  seeking  cor- 
roboration  from  the  middle  of  the  board,  where 
Sissy  had  been  so  lately  acting  as  "candle 
stick" — lately,  for  the  incident  had  ended  (no 
game  being  enticing  enough  to  hold  these  two 
long  in  an  unnatural  state  of  neutrality)  in 
Split's  washing  Sissy's  face  vigorously  in  the 
snow,  and  Sissy 's  calling  her  elder  sister  ' '  no 
thing  but  an  old  Indian ! "  as  she  ran  weeping 
into  the  house  with  the  familiar  parting  threat 
to  get  even  before  bedtime.  No  Madigan  could 
bear  that  the  sun  should  set  on  her  wrath ;  she 
preferred  that  all  scores  should  be  paid  off,  so 
that  the  slate  might  be  clean  for  to-morrow's 
reckonings. 

"Fom,"  said  her  big  sister,  slowly,  when  she 
was  quite  ready  to  speak, ' '  I  think  you  'd  better 
call  me  'Irene.'  You  'd  feel  gladder  about  it 
when  I  'm  gone." 

1 '  Where  ? "  At  this  minute  it  was  Fom  's  turn 
to  be  dangerously  high,  and  she  wriggled  to  the 
uttermost  end  of  the  plank  to  counterbalance 
her  sister 's  weight. 

A  mysterious  smile  overspread  Irene's  face. 
It  became  broadly  triumphant  as  she  rose  pres 
ently  on  the  short  end  of  the  board,  her  arms 
daringly  outspread,  her  toes  upturned  in  front 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE       155 

of  her,  her  agile  body  well  balanced,  her  spirit 
exulting  in  the  sense  of  danger  without  and 
superiority  within. 

"When?"  asked  Florence,  with  that  amiable 
readiness  to  consider  a  question  unasked,  so  be 
coming  to  the  vassal.  ' '  When  are  you  going  ? ' ' 

"  To-night— maybe. "  Her  own  words  star 
tled  Irene.  She  loved  to  play  upon  Fom  's  fears, 
but  she  had  not  really  intended  committing 
herself  so  far.  ' '  He  may  call  for  me  to-night, ' ' 
she  added,  with  qualifying  emphasis. 

"Who?    Not— not— " 

"Yes,  my  father.  I  must  be  ready  at  any 
time,  you  know. ' ' 

Fom  looked  alarmed.  She  had  heard  long  ago 
and  in  strict  confidence  about  Split's  lofty 
parentage.  She  had  even  accepted  drafts  upon 
her  future,  rendering  services  which  were  unu 
sual  in  a  Madigan  fag,  with  the  understanding 
that  when  the  Princess  Split  should  come  into 
her  own,  she  would  richly  repay.  But  she  had 
never  before  heard  her  speak  so  positively  or  set 
a  time  when  their  relationship  must  cease. 

A  feeling  of  utter  loneliness  came  over 
Split's  faithful  ally.  She  saw  the  balance  of 
power  in  the  Madigan  oligarchy  rudely  dis 
turbed.  She  beheld,  in  a  swift,  dread  vision, 
the  undisputed  supremacy  of  the  party  of  Sissy. 


156  THE  MADIGANS 

Dismay  entered  her  soul  and  shook  her  body, 
for  with  the  brunette  of  the  twins  emotion  and 
action  were  synonymous.  "Oh,  don't  go, 
Split !"  she  begged,  squirming  unhappily  at 
her  end  of  the  plank.  '  <  Don 't  go ! " 

High  up  in  the  air,  Split  smiled  superbly. 
There  was  noblesse  oblige  in  that  smile;  also 
the  strong  teasing  tincture  which  no  Madi- 
gan  could  resist  using,  even  upon  her  closest 
ally. 

"Oh,  Split- o-o-oh,  Split !"  wailed  Fom, 
forgetting  in  her  wriggling  misery  how  close 
she  already  was  to  the  end  of  the  plank. 

A  crash  and  a  bump  and  a  squeal  told  it  to 
her  all  at  once.  She  had  slid  clear  off,  getting 
an  instantaneous  effect  of  her  haughty  sister 
unsupported  at  a  dizzy  eminence,  before  Split 
came  bumping  down  to  earth,  the  see-saw  giving 
that  regal  head  a  parting,  stunning  tap  as  the 
long  end  finally  settled  down  and  the  short  one 
went  up  to  stay. 

It  was  never  in  the  ethics  of  Madigan  warfare 
to  explain  the  inexplicable.  Florence  was  on 
her  feet,  flying  as  though  for  her  very  life,  be 
fore  Split,  shaken  down  from  her  dreams, 
quite  realized  what  had  happened.  And  she 
was  still  sitting  as  she  had  fallen  when  Jim,  the 
Indian,  came  for  the  sawbuck. 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      157 

Jim  limped,  his  eyes  were  sore  and  watery, 
and  it  took  him  two  weeks  to  conquer  the  Madi- 
gan  woodpile,  which  any  other  Piute  in  town 
could  have  leveled  in  half  the  time. 

"Him  fall,  eh?"  he  asked,  dismantling  the 
see-saw  with  that  careful  leisureliness  that  ac 
counted  for  the  Chinaman  Wong 's  contempt  for 
Indians. 

"Not  him;  her,  Jim." 

Split  possessed  a  passion  for  imparting 
knowledge,  of  which  she  had  little,  and  which 
was  hard  for  her  to  attain. 

Jim  grinned. 

' '  She  no  got  little  gal  like  you  teach  her  In- 
glis, ' '  he  said,  gently  apologetic. 

"Not  she,  Jim;  he.  How  old  is  your  little 
girl?"  Split  remembered  that  a  genteel  in 
terest  in  the  lower  classes  is  becoming  to  the 
well-born. 

"He  just  big  like  you,"  Jim  responded 
mournfully,  drawing  the  back  of  his  brown 
hand  across  his  nose.  "But  he  all  gone." 

"Dead?"  Split  crossed  her  legs  uneasily 
as  she  squatted,  and  lowered  her  voice  rever 
ently. 

' '  He  no  dead, ' '  Jim  said,  lifting  the  sawbuck 
and  easing  it  on  his  shoulder.  "One  Washoe 
squaw  steal  him— little  papoose,  nice  little  pa- 


158  THE  MADIGANS 

poose.  Much  white— like  you,  missy.  So  white, 
squaw  say  no  sure  Injun. ' ' 

"Jim!" 

"Take  him  down  Tluckee  valley.  Take  him 
'way.  Jim  see  squaw  one  day  long  time  'go 
— Washoe  Lake— shoot  ducks.  Heap  shoot 
squaw.  He  die,  but  he  say  white  Faginia  man 
got  papoose." 

i '  Jim ! "  It  was  the  faintest  echo  of  the  first 
terrified  exclamation. 

"Come  Faginia,  look  papoose.  No  find. 
Chop  wood  long  time.  Heap  hogady— not 
much  dinner.  Nice  papoose— white,  like  you." 

Jim  paused.  He  expected  sympathy,  but  he 
hoped  for  dinner.  When  he  saw  he  was  to  get- 
neither,  he  hunched  his  lame  hipj  scratched  his 
head,  balanced  the  sawbuck,  and  shuffled  away. 

Too  overcome  to  move,  Split  sat  looking 
after  him.  Her  father!  This,  then,  was  her 
father!  She  was  dazed,  helpless,  too  over 
whelmed  even  to  be  unhappy  yet. 

There  came  a  shrill  call  for  her  from  Kate, 
and  Split,  with  unaccustomed  meekness,  stag 
gered  obediently  to  her  feet.  What  was  left  for 
her  but  to  be  a  slave,  she  said  stonily  to  herself. 
She  was  an  Indian  like— like  her  father!  And 
Sissy  had  noticed  the  resemblance  that  very 
afternoon ! 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      159 

"It  's  the  bell,  Split/'  explained  Kate,  who 
was  reading  "The  Spanish  Gypsy "  in  the  low, 
hall-like  library. 

She  had  begun  to  read  the  book  for  the  rea 
son  that  no  one  in  her  class  at  school  had  read  it 
-usually  a  compelling  reason  for  the  eldest  of 
the  Madigans;  but  the  poetic  beauty,  the  ex 
travagance  of  the  romance,  had  whirled  the  girl 
away  from  her  pretentious  pose,  and  she  was 
finishing  it  now  because  she  could  not  help  it; 
chained  to  it,  it  seemed  to  her,  till  she  should 
know  the  end. 

"  Shall  I  go  I  "  asked  Split,  humbly,  looking 
up  at  her  sister. 

Kate  looked  up,  too  surprised  by  her  sister's 
docility  to  do  anything  but  nod.  She  had  an 
ticipated  a  battle,  a  ring  at  the  door-bell  being 
the  signal  for  a  flying  wedge  of  Madigans  tear 
ing  through  the  hall,  with  inquisitive  Irene  at 
its  apex— except  when  she  was  asked  to  answer 
it. 

The  sisters'  eyes  met:  those  of  the  elder,  in 
her  thin,  dark,  flushed  face,  hazy  with  romantic 
happiness ;  those  of  the  younger  bright  with  ro 
mantic  suffering,  demanding  a  share  of  that 
felicity  which  transfigured  her  senior. 

"What  're  you  reading,  anyway,  Kate?"  she 
asked. 


160  THE  MADIGANS 

As  well  tap  the  bung  of  a  cask  and  ask  what 
it  holds.  Kate  began  chanting : 

i  i '  Father,  your  child  is  ready  !     She  will  not 
Forsake  her  kindred :  she  will  brave  all  scorn 
Sooner  than  scorn  herself.     Let  Spaniards  all, 
Christians,  Jews,  Moors,  shoot  out  the  lip  and  say, 
' l  Lo,  the  first  hero  in  a  tribe  of  thieves  !  " 
Is  it  not  written  so  of  them  ?   They,  too, 
"Were  slaves,  lost,  wandering,  sunk  beneath  a  curse, 
Till  Moses,  Christ,  and  Mahomet  were  born, 
Till  beings  lonely  in  their  greatness  lived, 
And  lived  to  save  their  people. '  " 

It  poured  from  Kate's  lips,  the  story  of  the  lady 
Fedalma  and  her  Gipsy  father,  a  stream  of  winy 
romance,  a  sugared  impossibility  preserved  in 
the  very  spirits  of  poetry. 

Again  the  old  bell  jangled,  and  again.  Kate 
was  glutted,  drunk  with  the  sound  of  the  verbal 
music  that  had  been  chorusing  behind  her  lips ; 
while  for  Irene  every  word  seemed  charged  with 
the  significance  of  special  revelation.  The  light 
seemed  to  leap  from  her  sister's  eyes  to  kindle 
a  conflagration  in  her  own. 

' '  Read  it  again— that  part— Kate !  Bead  it ! ' ? 
she  cried. 

And  Kate,  not  a  bit  loath,  turned  the  page  and 
repeated : 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      161 

"  '  Lay  the  young  eagle  in  what  nest  you  will, 
The  cry  and  swoop  of  eagles  overhead 
Vibrate  prophetic  in  its  kindred  frame, 
And  make  it  spread  its  wings  and  poise  itself 
For  the  eagle's  flight. ' " 

Split  breathed  again,  a  full,  deep  breath  of 
satisfaction.  An  Indian— she,  Split  Madi- 
gan?  Perhaps;  but  an  Indian  princess,  then, 
with  a  mission  as  great,  glorious,  and  impossi 
ble  as  Fedalma's  own. 

When  at  last  she  did  turn  mechanically  to 
answer  the  bell,  she  saw  that  Sissy  had  antici 
pated  her  and  was  showing  old  Professor  Trask 
into  the  parlor.  Ordinarily  Irene  loved  to  listen 
at  the  door  while  Sissy 's  lesson  was  in  progress ; 
for  Trask  was  a  nervous,  disappointed  wreck, 
whose  idea  of  teaching  music  seemed  to  be  to 
make  his  pupils  as  much  like  himself  as  harried 
youth  can  be  like  worried  age.  But  on  this 
great  day  the  joy  of  hearing  the  perfect  Sissy 
rated  had  not  the  smallest  place  in  her  enemy's 
thoughts.  A  poet's  words  had  lifted  Irene  in 
an  instant  from  child  hell  to  heaven,  had  fired 
her  imagination,  had  rekindled  her  pride,  had 
given  back  her  dreams. 

Reality  was  not  altogether  so  pleasant,  she 
found,  when  she  went  into  the  kitchen,  skir 
mished  with  the  Chinese  cook  for  Jim's  dinner, 


162  THE  MADIGANS 

and  went  out  to  the  woodpile  to  give  it  to  him 
herself. 

She  did  not  wait  to  see  him  eat  it— she  was 
not  poet  enough  for  that ;  and,  that  impersonal, 
composite  father,  her  tribe,  was  calling  her. 

Pulling  on  her  hood  and  jacket,  with  her  mit 
tens  dangling  from  a  red  tape  «on  each  side, 
she  flew  out  and  down  the  long,  rickety  stairs 
which  a  former  senator  from  Nevada  had  built 
up  the  mountain 's  side,  when  he  planned  for  his 
home  a  magnificent  view  of  the  mountains  and 
desert  off  toward  the  east. 

Split  did  not  look  at  either,  though  they 
shone,  the  one  like  a  billowy  moonlit  sea,  the 
other  like  a  lake  of  silver,  because  of  the  snow 
that  covered  them.  She  half  ran,  half  slid 
down  the  hilly  street  till  she  came  to  a  box-like 
miner's  cabin,  where  Jane  Cody,  the  washer 
woman,  lived  with  her  son.  In  front  of  it  she 
halted  and  called  imperiously: 

"Jack!" 

For  this  same  Jack  was  her  own,  her  discov 
ery,  her  possession,  who  acknowledged  her 
thrall  and  was  proud  of  it. 

But  the  green  shutters  over  the  one  window 
remained  fast,  and  the  door  tight  closed. 

"Jack?"  There  was  a  suggestion  of  incre 
dulity  in  Split's  voice. 


I  want  you — come  ! '  the  Indian  princess  announced" 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      165 

The  whistles  burst  forth  in  a  medley  of 
throaty  roars  (it  was  five-o'clock  " mining- 
time  "),  but  the  bird-like  whistle  of  Jack  was 
missing. 

' '  Jack  Cody !  ' :  Split  stamped  her  high  arc 
tics  in  the  snow. 

The  door  was  opened  a  little,  and  a  round 
black  head  was  cautiously  thrust  forth. 

"I  want  you — come!"  the  Indian  princess 
announced.  "And  get  your  sled." 

' '  I  can 't, ' '  replied  the  head. 

"But  I  want  you." 

The  head  wagged  dolefully. 

"Whynot?" 

The  head  hung  down. 

"Tell  me." 

The  head's  negative  was  sorrowful  but  de 
termined. 

"If  you  don't  tell  me  I  '11— never  speak  to 
you  again  's  long  as  I  live,  Jack  Cody ! ' ' 

The  head  stretched  out  its  long  neck  and 
sent  an  agonized  glance  toward  her. 

"Tell  me— right  now!"  she  commanded. 

"Well— she  's  took  my  clothes  with  her," 
wailed  the  head,  and  jerked  itself  within,  while 
the  door  was  slammed  behind  it. 

Split  walked  up  the  stoop. 

t '  Jack, ' '  she  called,  her  mouth  at  the  keyhole, 


166  THE  MADIGANS 

"who  took  'em?  Your  mother?  Why?  But 
she  can't  keep  you  in  that  way.  Never  mind. 
What  have  you  got  on?" 

The  door  was  opened  an  inch  or  two,  and 
the  head  started  to  look  out.  But  at  sight  of 
Split  so  near  it  withdrew  in  such  turtle-like 
alarm  that  she  laughed  aloud. 

"What  're  you  laughing  at?"  growled  the 
boy. 

"What  's  that  you  got  on?"  said  she. 

"My— my  mother's  wrapper." 

A  peal  of  laughter  burst  from  the  Indian 
princess.  But  it  ceased  suddenly.  For  the 
door  was  thrown  open  with  such  violence  that 
it  made  Jane  Cody's  wax  flowers  shake  ap 
prehensively  under  their  glass  bell,  and  a  fig 
ure  stalked  out  such  as  might  haunt  a  dream 
—long,  gaunt,  awkward,  inescapably  boyish,  yet 
absurdly  feminine,  now  that  the  dark  calico 
wrapper  flapped  at  its  big,  awkward  heels  and 
bound  and  hindered  its  long  legs. 

Split  looked  from  the  heavily  shod  feet  to 
the  round,  short-shaven  black  head,  and  a  pre 
monitory  giggle  shook  her. 

"Don't  you  laugh— don't  you  dare  laugh  at 
me!  Don't  you,  Split— will  you?"  The 
phrases  burst  from  him,  a  threat  at  the  begin 
ning,  an  appeal  at  the  end. 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      167 

"No,"  said  Split,  choking  a  bit;  "no,  I 
won't.  You  don't  look  very—"  she  gulped— 
"very  funny,  Jack.  And  it  's  getting  so  dark 
that  nobody  'd  know— really  they  would  n't." 

"Sure!" 

Split  nodded. 

' '  Get  your  sled  quick,  the  big,  long  one,  the 
leg-breaker,  and  take  me  down— I'll  tell  you 
where.  Get  it,  won't  you?" 

"In  this,  this-like  this?"  Jack  faltered. 

"It  's  so  important,  Jack.  Please!  It  's  al 
ways  you  that  asks  me,  remember." 

The  boy  threw  his  hands  out  with  a  gesture 
that  strained  the  narrow  garment  he  wore  al 
most  to  bursting.  He  began  to  talk,  to  argue, 
to  plead ;  then  suddenly  he  yielded,  and  turned 
and  ran,  a  grotesque,  long-legged  shape,  toward 
the  back  of  the  house. 

When  he  whistled,  Split  joined  him,  and  to 
gether  they  plowed  their  way  through  the  high 
snow  to  the  beaten-down  street  beyond.  At  the 
top  of  the  hill,  Split  sat  down  well  to  the  front 
of  the  low,  rakish-looking  leg-breaker.  Behind 
her  the  boy,  hitching  up  his  skirts,  threw  him 
self  with  one  knee  bent  beneath  him,  and,  with 
a  skilful  ruddering  of  the  other  long,  untrou- 
sered  leg,  started  the  sled. 

They  had  coasted  only  half  a  block— Virginia 


168  THE  MADIGANS 

City  runs  downhill— when  they  heard  the  shrill 
yelp  of  the  Comstock  boy  on  the  trail  of  his 
prey.  As  Jack  stopped  the  sled  a  swift  volley 
of  snowballs  from  a  cross-street  struck  the  fig 
ure  of  a  tall,  timid,  stooping  man  in  an  old- 
fashioned  cape,  such  as  no  Comstock  boy  had 
ever  seen  on  anything  masculine. 

"It  's  Professor  Trask,"  breathed  Irene, 
keen  delight  in  persecution  lending  to  her  ag 
gressive,  bright  face  that  savage  sharpness  of 
feature  which  Sissy  Madigan  called  Indian. 
"Don't  you  wish  you  had  n't  got  that  dress  on, 
Jack!"  she  asked,  as  the  tall,  black  mark  for  a 
good  shot  still  stood  hesitating  to  cross  the  pol 
ished,  steep  street,  down  which  many  sleds  had 
slipped  for  days  past.  "You  could  get  him 
every  time,  could  n  't  you  ? ' ' 

Despite  the  ignoble  garment  that  cramped  it, 
the  boy's  breast  swelled  with  pride  in  his  lady's 
approval. 

"You  could  just  fire  one  at  him  from  here, 
anyway,"  suggested  Irene,  adaptable  as  her 
sex  is  to  contemporary  standards  and  customs. 

"Ye-es,"  said  the  boy,  hesitating;  "but  he  's 
such  a  poor  old  luny." 

Split  turned  her  imperial  little  hooded  head 
questioningly. 

"He  is— really  luny,"  said  the  boy,  apologet- 


"  They  had  coasted  only  half  a  block 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      171 

ically.  ' '  Since  his  little  girl  wandered  away  one 
day  from  home  and  never  came  back,  he  gets 
spells,  you  know.  He  was  telling  ma  one  day 
when  she  went  over  to  do  his  washing.  But— 
hut  I  will  land  one  on  him  if  you  want,  Split. ' ' 

But  Split  had  suddenly  pivoted  clear 
around  and  sat  now  facing  him,  an  eager,  mit- 
tened  hand  staying  his  hard,  skilful,  obedient 
fingers,  already  making  the  snowball. 

"  How— how  old  would  that  little  girl  be, 
Jack?"  she  gasped. 

"Why,  'bout  twelve— thirteen.    Why?" 

"And  what  would  be  the  color  of  her  hair?" 

"Red,  I  s'pose,  like  his;  not — not  like  yours 
—Split,"  he  added  shyly,  glancing  at  the 
brown  fire  of  the  curls  that  escaped  from  her 
hood. 

But  Irene  was  no  longer  listening.  She  was 
looking  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
where  that  shrinking,  pitiable  old  figure  in  its 
threadbare  neatness  trembled;  not  daring  to 
seek  safety  across  the  dangerously  smooth 
street,  nor  daring  to  remain  exposed  here, 
where  it  ducked  ridiculously  every  now  and  then 
to  avoid  the  whizzing  balls  that  sang  about  it. 

Irene  breathed  hard.  A  coward  for  a  father, 
a  scarecrow,  a  butt  for  a  gang  of  miners'  boys ! 
This,  this  was  her  father !  Why,  even  crippled 


172  THE  MADIGANS 

old  Jim,  the  wood-chopper,  seen  in  retrospect 
and  haloed  by  copper-colored  dreams  of  ro 
mantic  rehabilitation— even  Jim  seemed  re 
grettable. 

But  she  did  not  hesitate,  any  more  than  Fe- 
dalma  did.  She,  too,  knew  a  daughter's  duty 
—to  a  hitherto  unknown,  just-discovered  father. 
A  merely  ordinary,  every-day  parent  like  Fran 
cis  Madigan  was,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  com 
mon  enemy,  and  no  self-respecting  Madigan 
would  waste  the  poetry  of  filial  feeling  upon  any 
one  so  realistic. 

1  i  You  wait  for  me  here,  Jack, ' '  she  said,  with 
unhesitating  reliance  upon  his  obedience. 

" Where  're  you  going?  I  thought  you  were 
in  a  hurry  to  get  down  to  the  wickiups. ' ' 

She  did  not  hear  him.  She  had  spun  off  the 
sled,  and  with  the  sure-footed  speed  of  the  hill- 
child  she  was  crossing  the  street. 

Old  Trask,  his  short-sighted  eyes  blinking  be 
neath  his  twitching,  bushy  red  eyebrows,  looked 
down  as  upon  a  miracle  when  a  red-mittened 
hand  caught  his  and  he  heard  a  confident  voice 
—the  clear  voice  children  use  to  enlighten  the 
stupidity  of  adults: 

"  I  '11  help  you  across ;  take  my  hand. ' ' 

1 '  Eh— what?" 

He  leaned  down,   failing  to  recognize  her-. 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      173 

Children  had  no  identity  to  him.  They  were 
merely  brats,  he  used  to  say,  unless  they  hap 
pened  to  have  some  musical  aptitude.  But  he 
accepted  her  aid,  his  battered  old  hat  rocking 
excitedly  upon  his  high  bony  forehead,  as  he 
ducked  and  turned  and  shivered  at  the  oncom 
ing  balls.  "Bad  boys— bad  boys!"  he  ejacu 
lated.  * '  Boys  are  the  devil ! ' ' 

"Yes,"  agreed  Split,  craftily.  "Girls  are 
best.  Your  little  girl,  now— father—  '  she  be 
gan  softly. 

<  <  Eh— what  1  "  he  exclaimed.  ' '  Who 's  your 
father!  My  respects  to  him." 

1 '  I  have  no  father, ' '  she  answered  softly.  A 
plan  had  sprung  full-born  from  her  quick  brain. 
She  would  win  this  erratic  father  back  to  mem 
ory  of  his  former  life  and  her  place  in  it— some 
what  as  did  one  Lucy  Manette,  a  favorite  hero 
ine  of  Split's  that  Sissy  had  read  about  and 
told  her  of.  That  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  do 
—almost  as  fine,  and  requiring  the  center  of  the 
stage  as  much,  as  rehabilitating  the  Red  Man. 

"I  have  no  father,"  she  murmured,  "if  you 
won't  be  mine." 

"  What?  What?  No!  "  Trask  was  across 
now  and  brushing  the  snowy  traces  of  battle 
from  his  queer  old  cape.  "No;  I  don't  want 
any  children.  I  had  one  once— a  daughter." 


174  THE  MADIGANS 

Split's  heart  beat  fast. 

' '  She  was  a  brat,  with  the  temper  of  a  little 
fiend,  and  no  ear— absolutely  none— for  music; 
played  like  an  elephant." 

How  terribly  confirmatory ! 

"And  what— what  became  of  her?"  whis 
pered  Split. 

"She  ran  away  two  years  ago  and —  " 

"Two  years!" 

"I  said  two,  didn't  I!"  demanded  the  old 
professor,  irascibly. 

Disgusted,  Split  turned  her  back  on  him. 
Why,  two  years  ago  Sissy  had  first  called  her  an 
Indian;  how  right  she  had  been!  Two  years 
ago  she,  Split,  was  making  over  all  her  dolls 
to  Fom.  Two  years  ago  she  had  already  dis 
covered  Jack  Cody's  fleet  strength,  his  wonder 
ful  aptness  at  making  swift  sleds,  in  which  her 
reckless  spirit  reveled,  his  mastership  of  other 
boys  of  his  gang,  and— her  mastery  of  him. 

She  turned  and  beckoned  to  him.  His  sweet 
whistle  rang  out  in  answer  like  a  vocal  salute, 
and  in  a  moment  she  was  seated  again  in  front 
of  him,  with  that  deft,  tail-like  left  leg  of  his 
steering  them  down,  down  over  cross-street, 
through  teams  and  sleighs  and  unwary  pedes 
trians;  past  the  miners  coming  off  shift;  past 
the  lamplighter  making  his  rounds  in  the  crisp, 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      175 

clear  cold  of  the  evening ;  past  the  heavy-laden 
squaws,  with  their  bowed  heads,  their  papooses 
on  their  backs,  their  weary  arms  bearing  home 
the  spoils  of  a  hard  day's  work,  and  the  sore- 
eyed  yellow  dogs  trudging,  too,  wearily  and 
dejectedly  at  their  heels,  toward  the  rest  of  the 
wickiup  and  the  acrid  warmth  of  the  sage-brush 
camp-fire. 

In  short,  swift  sentences,  as  they  hurdled  over 
artificially  raised  obstructions,  or  slid  along  the 
firm-packed  snow,  or  grated  on  the  muddy 
cross-streets,  Princess  Split  told  her  plan— 
with  reservations.  She  was  not  prepared  to 
admit  to  so  humble  a  worshiper  the  secret  of 
her  birth,  but  the  magnanimous  self-sacrifice  of 
a  beautiful  nature,  the  heroine  concealed  be 
neath  a  frivolous  exterior — these  she  was  will 
ing  Jack  Cody  should  suspect  and  admire. 

"We  '11  lift  them  up,  you  and  I,  Jack.  I  'm 
going  'to— to  be  the  angel  of  a  homeless  tribe,' 
or  something  like  that, ' '  she  quoted,  as  it  grew 
darker  and  the  sled  slowed  down  a  bit,  where 
the  slant  of  the  hill-street  became  gentler  and 
she  need  not  hold  on  tight.  "You  '11  be  their 
general  and  I  their  princess.  You  '11  teach  them 
to  be  fine  soldiers,  so  that  the  people  in  town 
will  be  afraid  of  them  and  have  to  give  them 
back  their  lands— and  the  mines,  too.  They  're 


176  THE  MADIGANS 

theirs,  and  they  shall  have  them  and  be  million 
aires.  And,  of  course,  so  will  we.  We  '11  own 
all  the  stocks  and  brokers'  offices,  and  after  a 
few  years,  when  they  're  quite  civilized,  we  '11 
come  up  to  town  to  live.  We  '11  take  Bob 
Graves 's  '  Castle '  and— Jack !  Ah ! " 

A  long  scream  burst  from  her.  Never  in  her 
life  had  Split  Madigan  screamed  like  that. 
For  an  incredibly  fleet  instant  she  actually  saw 
above  her  head  a  struggling  horse 's  hoofs.  In 
the  next,  her  calico-wrappered  knight  had 
thrown  himself  and  his  lady  out  into  the  great 
drifts  on  the  side.  Split  felt  the  cold  fleeci- 
ness  of  new-fallen  snow  on  her  face,  down  her 
neck,  up  her  sleeves.  She  was  smothered, 
drowned  in  it,  when  with  another  tug  the 
boy  whirled  her  to  her  feet,  and  swaying  un 
steadily,  she  looked  up  into  the  face  of  the 
man  whose  horses  had  so  nearly  crushed  her 
life  out. 

It  was  her  father— she  knew  it  was.  Else  why 
had  fate  so  strangely  thrown  them  together? 
Yes,  this  was  her  true  father.  No  other  girl's 
father  could  have  so  handsome  a  fur  coat  as 
that  reaching  from  the  tips  of  this  very  tall 
man's  ears  to  his  heels.  No  other  could  have 
a  sleigh  so  fine,  and  silver-belled  horses  fit  for 
a  king.  No  other  could  have  such  bright  brown 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      177 

eyes  beneath  heavy  sandy  brows,  such  red,  red 
cheeks,  and  so  long  and  silver-white  a  beard 
which  the  sun  could  still  betray  into  confes 
sion  of  its  youthful  ruddiness.  What  if  he  did 
have,  too,  a  brogue  so  soft,  so  wheedling  that 
men  had  long  called  him  Slippery  Uncle 
Sammy? 

Split  waked  with  a  humiliating  start  from 
her  lesser,  less  genteel  dreams.  Of  course  this 
bonanza  king  driving  up  from  the  mine  was 
her  real  father,  and  she  a  bonanza  princess,  hap 
pier,  more  fortunate  than  a  merely  political 
one;  for  princesses  have  to  live  in  Europe, 
where  Madigans  cannot  see  and  envy  them. 

With  the  mien  of  one  who  has  come  at  last 
into  her  own,  Split  accepted  his  invitation  to 
carry  her  up  to  town,  and,  with  a  facetious  twin 
kle  in  his  eyes  that  added  to  his  likeness  to  a 
stately  Santa  Glaus  (though  his  was  not  a  repu 
tation  for  benevolence),  he  lifted  her  and  set  her 
down  under  the  silky  fur  rugs. 

Split  nestled  back  in  perfect  content :  at  last 
she  was  fitly  placed. 

' '  Hitch  on  behind,  Jack, ' '  she  cried  patroniz 
ingly,  and  the  bonanza  king's  sleigh  went  up  the 
hill  with  its  queer  freight:  queer,  for  this  was 
that  one  of  them  whose  strength  was  subtlety, 
whose  forte  was  guile,  whose  left  hand  knew 

10 


178  THE  MADIGANS 

not  the  charitable  acts  of  his  right— and  neither 
did  the  right,  for  that  matter. 

Thoroughly  sophisticated  are  Comstock  chil 
dren  as  to  the  character  of  the  masters  of  their 
masters,  and  Split  Madigan  knew  how  foreign 
to  this  man's  nature  a  lovable  action  was.  All 
the  more,  then,  she  valued  the  distinction  which 
chance— fate— had  made  hers.  And  all  the 
more  did  a  something  fierce  and  lawless  and 
proud  in  herself  leap  to  recognize  the  tyrant 
in  him.  Kings  should  be  above  law,  as  prin 
cesses  were,  was  Split's  creed;  else  why  be 
kings  and  princesses? 

"An'  where  would  ye  be  a-goin'  to,  down 
this  part  o'  the  world  so  late?"  she  heard  the 
unctuous  voice  above  her  inquire. 

Split  was  silent.  That  the  daughter  of  a 
bonanza  king  should  have  fancied  for  a  moment 
that  Indian  Jim  could  be  her  father! 

"An'  who  's  the  gyurl  with  ye— the  witch  ye 

eallJack!" 

"  'T  is  n't  a  girl."  That  virility  which 
Split's  wild  nature  respected  and  admired  for 
bade  her  denying  the  boy  his  sex.  "It  's  a  boy 
-Jack- Jack  Cody." 

King  Sammy  laughed.  His  was  rich,  strong 
laughter,  and  men  who  heard  it  on  C  Street 
(they  had  reached  the  main  thoroughfare  now, 


> 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      179 

so  fleet  were  these  kingly  horses  of  Split 's 
father)  knew  it — and  knew,  too,  what  poor, 
mean  thoughts  lay  behind  it. 

"An'  this  Cody,"  he  said,  turning  his  hand 
some  head  to  look  down  at  the  boy  on  his  sled 
behind.  "Cody— Cody,  now,"  he  continued, 
with  royalty's  marvelous  memory,  "your  fa 
ther  killed  in  the  Ophir— eh?  Time  of  the  fire 
on  the  1800— yes— yes!  An'  I  was  goin'  to 
give  him  a  point  that  very  day.  Well— well!" 

6 '  Ye  did ! ' '  The  boy  looked  up  resentful,  and 
met  those  smiling, .  crafty  eyes. 

"No!  An'  he  sold  short?  Too  bad!  Too 
bad !  I  thought  sure  that  stock  was  goin '  down. 
My,  the  bad  man  that  told  me  it  was !  I  hope 
he  did  n't  lose?"  he  chuckled. 

"All  we  had,"  said  the  boy. 

"Tut— tut— tut!  What  a  pity!  Haven't  I 
always  said  it  's  wicked  to  deal  in  stocks ! ' '  The 
king  shook  his  sorrowful  old  head,  then  turned 
to  the  princess  beside  him.  "An'  it  's  out  for 
a  ride  ye  'd  be,  sweetheartin '  on  the  sly,  eh  ? " 

"He's  not!  I  was  not!"  Split's  cheeks 
grew  hotter.  He  was  her  father,  this  splendid, 
handsome  king,  yet  never  had  she  felt  for  poor 
Francis  Madigan  what  she  felt  now  for  the  man 
beside  her. 

"What,  then?" 


180  THE  MADIGANS 

"I  was  going  down  for— for  a  reason,"  she 
stammered. 

"  To  be  sure !  To  be  sure ! ' '  chuckled  his  old 
Majesty.  "An'  ye  've  told  your  father  an' 
mother  ye  were  goin ',  no  doubt. ' ' 

"No,  I-didn't.    I— couldn't." 

"Coorse  not;  coorse  not,  but  ye—" 

* '  Let  me  out ! ' '  cried  Split. 

The  sneer  in  his  voice  had  set  her  aflame. 
She  rose  in  the  sleigh,  cast  off  the  furs,  and, 
stamping  like  a  fury,  tried  to  seize  the  reins. 

"Ho!  Ho!"  The  old  monarch's  bowed 
broad  shoulders  shook  with  laughter  as  he 
caught  her  trembling  hands  and  held  them. 
"What  a  little  spitfire!  A  divvle  of  a  temper 
ye  've  got,  my  dear.  Cody,  now,  does  he  like 
gyurls  with  such  a  temper?" 

"Will  you  let  me  out?"  Her  voice  was 
hoarse  with  anger. 

"Can't  ye  wait  till  we  get  t'  a  crossin',  ye 
little  termagant?" 

"No— no!"  She  tore  her  hands  from  him, 
and,  with  a  quick,  lithe  leap  from  the  low 
sleigh,  landed,  a  bit  dazed,  in  the  snow  banked 
high  on  the  side  of  the  street. 

Uncle  Sammy  stared  after  her  a  moment. 
Then  he  remembered  the  boy  behind. 

"Hi— there!"  he  cried,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  reached  for  his  whip.  "Git!" 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      181 

But  Cody  had  the  street-boy 's  quickness.  All 
he  had  to  do  was  to  let  go  the  end  of  rope  he 
held,  and  the  leg-breaker  slipped  smoothly  back, 
while  the  king's  runnered  chariot  shot  ahead, 
drawn  by  the  flying  horses  on  whose  backs  the 
whip  had  descended. 

"Ugh!"  shivered  Split,  as  she  made  her 
way  out  of  the  drift.  "It  's  cold,  Jack.  Let  's 
run." 

Together  they  hauled  the  leg-breaker  up  the 
hill,  parting  at  the  snow-caked,  wandering 
flights  of  steps,  which  seemed  weary  and  worn 
with  their  endless  task  of  climbing  the  moun 
tain  to  Madigan's  door. 

Irene  mounted  them  quickly.  She  was  cold, 
and  it  had  grown  very  dark  and  late;  so  late 
that  the  lamp  shone  out  from  the  dining-room, 
warning  her  that  it  must  be  dangerously  near 
to  dinner-time.  She  had  reached  the  last  flight 
when  Sissy  came  flying  out  along  the  porch  to 
meet  her. 

"  Split— ssh!  "  she  cautioned,  with  a  friend 
liness  that  surprised  Split,  who  remembered 
how  well  she  had  washed  that  round,  innocent 
face  in  the  snow  only  a  few  hours  ago— the  face 
of  Sissy,  the  unforgiving.  "Dinner  's  ready," 
she  went  on,  "but  father  isn't  down  yet.  Go 
round  the  back  way,  and  you  can  get  in  with 
out  his  knowing  how  late  you  are." 


182  THE  MADIGANS 

Split  did  not  budge.  The  sight  of  Sissy  had 
made  her  a  Madigan  again,  prepared  for  any 
emergency  the  appearance  of  her  arch-enemy 
might  portend.  "What  are  you  up  to?"  she 
demanded  suspiciously. 

"  Oh !  "  Sissy  turned  haughtily  on  her  heel. 
"If  you  want  to  go  in  and  catch  it— go." 

But  Split  did  not  want  to  catch  it.  Her 
day's  experience  had  made  her  content  to  bear 
the  eccentricities  of  her  humble  foster-father, 
but  she  was  by  no  means  anxious  to  be  the  in 
strument  that  should  provoke  a  characteristic 
expression  of  them. 

She  slipped  around  the  back  way,  passing 
through  Wong's  big  kitchen,  the  heat  and  odors 
of  which  were  grateful  messages  of  cheer  to  her 
chilled  little  body.  She  flew  up-sta,irs  and  tore 
off  her  wet  clothing,  and  was  out  in  the  hall, 
buttoning  hastily  as  she  walked,  when  the  door 
bell  rang. 

In  some  previous  existence  Split  Madigan 
must  have  been  a  most  intelligent  horse  in  some 
metropolitan  fire  department.  It  was  her  in 
stinct  still  to  run  at  the  sound  of  the  bell ;  every 
other  Madigan,  therefore,  delighted  in  prevent 
ing  that  impulse's  gratification.  But  this  time 
Bessie  came  hurriedly  to  meet  her  and  even 
speed  her  on  her  errand. 


o 

I 


- 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      185 

" Quick— it  's  your  father,  Split!"  she  cried. 

Split  looked  at  her.  She  trusted  Bep  no 
more  than  she  did  Sissy,  whose  lieutenant  the 
blonde  twin  was. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  glare  at  me!"  exclaimed 
Bep,  her  guilty  conscience  sensitive  to  accusa 
tion  by  implication.  "Fom  told  me  all  you 
told  her  about  him.  She  was  'fraid  you  were 
coming  after  her  for  letting  you  fall  off 
the  see-saw,  and  she  told  me  the  whole  thing. 
She  said  you  expected  him  to-night— don't 
you  ? ' ' 

"  How— do  you  know  it  's— my  father  that  's 
at  the  door?  "  demanded  Split,  all  the  warier 
of  the  enemy  because  of  her  acquaintance  with 
her  secret. 

<  <  Why ! ' '  Bep  opened  clear,  china-blue  eyes, 
as  shallow  and  baffling  as  bits  of  porcelain. 
" Has  n't  he  been  here  once  for  you  already, 
while  you  were  out!" 

Split  turned  and  ran  down  the  hall.  In  the 
minute  this  took  she  had  lived  through  a  long, 
heart-breaking,  childish  regret— regret  for  the 
familiar,  apprehension  of  the  unknown.  It  was 
so  warm  and  snug  in  this  Madigan  house ;  she 
seemed  so  to  belong  there.  Why  must  that  un 
known  parent  come  to  claim  her  just  now,  when 
her  spirit  was  still  sorely  vexed  with  the  fail- 


186  THE  MADIGANS 

ings  of  the  various  fathers  she  had  borne  with  in 
one  short  afternoon! 

She  got  to  the  top  of  the  staircase  that  led 
down  to  the  front  door,  when  she  saw  that  some 
one  had  preceded  her.  It  was  Madigan,  who 
was  on  his  way  down  to  dinner ;  poor  old  Madi- 
gan,  with  his  slippered,  slow,  but  positive  tread, 
his  straight,  assertive  back  expressing  indigna 
tion,  as  it  always  did  when  his  door-bell  was 
rung.  Oh,  that  familiar  old  back !  Something 
swelled  in  Split's  throat  and  held  her  chok 
ing,  as  she  grasped  the  banister  and  gazed 
yearningly  down  upon  him.  ,  Eor  a  moment  she 
had  the  idea  of  flying  down  past  him  to  save  him 
from  what  was  coming.  But  it  was  too  late: 
already  he  had  his  hand  on  the  door-knob.  Did 
he  know  who  it  was  for  whom  he  was  opening 
his  door?  Split  gasped.  Did  he  anticipate 
what  was  coming?  Some  one  ought  to  tell  him 
—to  break  it  to  him— to— 

But  evidently  Split  herself  could  not  have 
done  this,  for  in  almost  the  identical  moment 
that  Madigan  resentfully  threw  open  the  door, 
a  stream  of  water  was  dashed  into  his  aston 
ished  face. 

From  her  point  of  vantage  on  the  stairway 
Split  saw  a  paralyzed  Sissy,  the  empty  pitcher 
in  her  guilty  hand,  the  grin  of  satisfaction 


THE  ANCESTRY  OF  IRENE      187 

frozen  on  her  panic-stricken  round  face ;  while, 
before  she  fled,  her  eyes  shot  one  quick,  hunted 
glance  over  Madigan 's  dripping  head  to  the 
joyous  enemy  above. 

And  Split  was  joyous.  Her  explosive  laugh 
pealed  out  in  the  second  before  fear  of  her  fa 
ther  stifled  it.  So  this  was  how  Sissy  had 
planned  to  get  even ;  so  this  was  the  plot  behind 
Bep's  baffling  blue  eyes!  And  only  the  acci 
dent  of  Madigan 's  going  to  the  door  had  saved 
Split— and  confounded  her  enemy. 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  be  a  Madigan!  Stand 
ing  there  dry  and  triumphant,  Split  hugged 
herself— her  very  own  self— her  individuality, 
which  at  this  minute  she  would  not  have 
changed  for  anything  the  world  had  to  offer. 
To  be  a  Madigan,  one's  birthright  to  laugh  and 
do  battle  with  one's  peers;  and  to  win,  some 
times  through  strength,  sometimes  through 
guile,  sometimes  through  sheer  luck— but  to 
win! 


THE  LAST  STRAW 


THE   LAST   STKAW 

YOUNG-  as  she  was,  Frances  Madigan  had 
known  a  great  sorrow.  She  remem 
bered  (or  fancied  she  did,  having  heard  the 
circumstance  so  often  related)  how  Francis 
Madigan  had  seized  and  confiscated  her  cradle 
as  soon  as  her  sex  had  been  avowed. 

"It  's  too  bad,  Madigan  I"  was  the  form  in 
which  Dr.  Murchison  had  made  the  announce 
ment  of  her  birth. 

"It  's  the  last  straw— that  's  what  it  is," 
Madigan  answered  grimly,  bearing  the  cradle 
out  to  the  woodshed.  There  he  chopped  it  to 
pieces,  as  though  defying  a  perverse  destiny 
to  send  him  another  daughter. 

With  tears  running  down  her  cheeks, 
Frances  had  witnessed  the  pathetic  sight— or, 
if  she  had  not,  she  believed  she  had ;  which  was 
quite  as  effective  in  her  narrative  of  the  occur 
rence. 

"And  he  took  my  cwadle,"  Frank  was  ac- 

191 


192  THE  MADIGANS 

customed  to  relate,  with  an  abused  sniff  to 
punctuate  each  phrase,  "and  he  chopped  it  wif 
the  hatchet  all  in  little  bits  o'  pieces. " 

"How  big,  Frank?"  Sissy  liked  to  ask. 

"Teeny-weeny  bits— little  as  that,"  Frank 
whined,  still  in  character,  and  showing  a  small 
finger-nail.  "And—" 

"And  then  what  did  you  do?"  prompted 
Sissy. 

Frank  stamped  her  foot.  The  cynical  tone 
of  the  question  grated  upon  an  artistic  temper 
ament  at  the  crucial  moment  when  it  was  com 
posing  and  acting  at  the  same  time.  "Don't 
you  say  it,  Sissy  Madigan!"  she  cried  petu 
lantly.  "I  can  say  it  myself.  And  then" 
—turning  to  Maude  Bryne-Stivers,  to  whom 
she  was  telling  the  touching  incident,  with  a 
resumption  of  her  first  manner,  and  her  most 
heartrending  tone— "and  then  I  looked  first  at 
my  cwadle  and  then  at  my  father,  and  I  cwied 
—and  cwied— and  cwied— and— 

One  is  limited  at  four  and  is  apt  to  strive  for 
emphasis  by  the  simple  method  of  repetition. 
Frank  always  "cwied  and  cwied"  till  some 
interruption  came  to  the  rescue  and  furnished 
a  climax. 

"You  dear  little  lump  of  sugar!"  cried  Miss 
Bryne-Stivers  at  the  proper  moment,  lifting 


THE  LAST  STRAW  193 

the  chubby  mourner  off  her  feet  and  out  of  her 
pose  at  the  same  time. 

And  Frank,  seated  on  the  lady's  lap,  was 
content  with  her  effect. 

It  was  a  small  matter,  anyway,  with  Frank 
Madigan— the  loss  of  a  pose  or  two;  she  had 
so  many.  A  parody  of  parodies  was  the  small 
est  Madigan,  and  her  jokes  were  the  shadows 
of  shades  of  jokes  handed  down  ready-made 
to  her.  Yet  she  was  convinced  that  they  were 
good ;  otherwise  the  Madigans  would  not  have 
laughed  at  them  long  before  she  adopted  them. 

She  herself  was  a  victim— as  was  the  gen 
tleman  after  whom  she  was  named— of  a  sur 
plusage  of  femininity  about  the  house.  All  fe 
male  children  are  mothers  before  they  are 
girls,  the  earliest  sex-tendency  having  a  scien 
tific  precedence  over  others;  and  the  Madi 
gans  "played  with"  their  smallest  sister 
bodily,  as  with  a  doll  whose  mechanism  pre 
sented  more  possibilities  than  that  of  any  me 
chanical  toy  they  had  seen— in  some  other 
child's  possession.  Later  they  were  charmed 
-if  but  for  a  while— by  the  field  her  mental 
ity  provided  for  experimental  work.  There 
were  times  when  Frances  Madigan  had  a 
mother  for  every  day  in  the  week;  there  were 
days  when  she  had  no  mother  at  all ;  and  there 


194  THE  MADIGANS 

were  occasions  when  she  was  adopted  as  a 
whole,  and  for  a  stated  time,  by  some  Madigan 
with  a  theory,  which  was  tried  upon  her  with 
all  the  rembrselessness  of  a  faddist  before  she 
was  given  over  as  completely  to  its  successor. 

Thus  Sissy  had  taken  possession  of  her  and 
made  of  her,  in  the  short  time  her  enthusiasm 
lasted,  a  visible  replica  of  that  which  Sissy 
tried  to  delude  herself  into  thinking  was  her 
own  character.  In  those  days  she  cut  poor 
Frank's  curls  off  and  plastered  the  child's  hair 
down  in  a  strong-minded  fashion.  She  in 
sisted  upon  her  disciple's  pronouncing  clearly 
and  distinctly.  She  inaugurated  a  regime  of 
practical  common  sense,  small  rewards  and 
severe  punishments,  and  taught  Frank  how  to 
count.  But  not  to  spell;  for  Sissy  had  intro 
duced  the  fashion  among  Madigans  of  spelling 
out  the  word  which  was  the  key-note  of  a  sen 
tence—a  proceeding  that  exasperated  Frank. 
" Don't  you  let  her  have  any  c-a-n-d-y;  Aunt 
Anne  says  't  ain't  good  for  her,"  was  a  sam 
ple  of  the  abuses  that  drove  Frank  nearly  mad 
with  curiosity  and  indignation. 

But  finally  Sissy  joined  the  Salvation  Army 
with  her  protegee  (religion  had  all  the  at 
traction  of  the  impliedly  forbidden  to  the 
Madigans),  and  was  discovered  by  Francis 


THE  LAST  STRAW  195 

Madigan  one  evening  on  C  Street,  putting  up 
a  fluent  prayer  in  a  nasal  tremolo— an  excellent 
imitation  of  the  semi-hysterical  falsetto  of  the 
bonneted  enthusiast  who  had  preceded  her. 

Madigan  looked  from  Sissy— her  hypocrit 
ical  eyes  upcast,  while  her  soul  was  ravished 
by  the  whispered  comment  upon  her  precocity, 
to  which  she  lent  an  encouraging  ear— to 
Frank,  kneeling  angelically  beside  her.  Some 
thing  in  himself,  his  enthusiastic,  emotional, 
long-forgotten,  youthful  self,  felt  the  tug  of 
sympathy  at  the  sight,  and,  after  his  first  irri 
tated  start,  he  stood  there  behind  the  watching 
crowd  with  no  thought  of  interference. 

"You  can  thank  your  stars,  you  unco  guid 
lassie,"  he  said  within  himself,  his  sarcastic 
eyes  on  Sissy's  holy  face,  "that  you  Ve  not 
a  more  religious  and  more  conventional  man 
for  a  father.  'T  is  one  like  that  would  yank 
you  out  of  your  play-acting  preaching,  or  my 
name  's  not  Madigan— ahem!" 

He  did  not  know  that  the  exclamation  had 
been  uttered  aloud.  Their  father  was  unaware 
of  the  habit;  but  his  daughters  knew  well  that 
stentorian  clearing  of  the  throat  which  served 
for  a  warning  that  he  was  about  to  speak,  and 
also  a  notification  that  he  had  spoken  and 
would  permit  no  difference  of  opinion.  In  the 


196  THE  MADIGANS 

midst  of  her  religio-dramatic  ecstasy,  Sissy 
heard  that  sound  behind  her,  and  jumped  to 
her  feet  as  though  brought  painfully  back  to 
a  sorrowing,  sinful  world. 

"And  he  tooked  her,'7  said  Frances  later, 
in  relating  the  affair  to  an  eager  audience  of 
Madigans,  "and  he  whipped  her  awful!" 

"With  his  whole  hand?"  asked  Bep,  feeling 
it  to  be  the  partizan's  duty  to  doubt. 

"Uh-huh!"  The  small  fabricator  nodded 
her  head  in  slow  and  awful  confirmation. 

"That  shows,  Frank  Madigan!"  said  Bep, 
scornfully  turning  her  back.  ' '  He  never  whips 
with  more  than  two  fingers. ' ' 

And  yet  it  was  the  confident  belief  of  the 
Madigans  that  if  it  had  been  anybody  but 
Sissy,  that  somebody  would  have  been  eaten 
alive ! 

It  was  Split  who  next  adopted  the  Last 
Straw.  Under  her  tutelage  Frank  learned  to 
climb  her  sister's  body  and  stand  upright  and 
fearless  on  her  shoulders.  She  was  also  initi 
ated  into  the  great  game  of  "  fats,"  which  the 
Madigans  played  winter  evenings  on  the  crumb- 
cloth  in  the  dining-room;  said  crumb-cloth  be 
ing  printed  in  large  squares  of  red  and  white, 
one  of  which  was  chalked  off  for  the  ring. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  197 

Frank's  induction  into  the  game  led  to  a 
grand  battle  between  Split  and  Sissy,  the  lat 
ter  contending  that  the  baby 's  fingers  could  not 
properly  handle  and  shoot  the  marbles.  But 
Sissy  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  make 
such  a  point,  as  the  Madigans  had  a  peculiar 
way  of  playing  fats,  for  which  Frank— being 
a  Madigan— was  as  fitted  by  nature  as  any  of 
her  seniors. 

It  consisted,  first,  in  hauling  out  the  big  box 
of  marbles,  in  which  the  booty  won  by  the 
whole  family  was  kept— the  Madigans  were 
gamblers,  of  course,  as  was  everything  born 
on  the  Comstock.  Second,  in  a  desperate  con 
troversy  as  to  how  the  marbles  were  to  be 
divided.  Third,  in  a  compromise,  which  neces 
sitated  that  a  complete  count  be  made  of  every 
marble  in  the  box— and  the  Madigans'  unfem- 
inine  skill  made  this  a  question  of  handling 
hundreds  of  them,  of  suspiciously  watching 
one  another,  of  losing  and  of  finding ;  and  it  all 
took  time.  Fourth,  a  decision  as  to  handicaps. 
Fifth,  a  heated  discussion  of  the  relative  values 
of  puries,  pottries,  agates,  crystals,  and  'dobies. 
Sixth,  a  fiery  attack  from  Sissy  on  Split's 
lucky  taw.  Seventh,  the  falling  asleep  of  Frank 
squarely  over  the  ring.  And  eighth,  the  send 
ing  of  the  whole  tribe  to  bed  by  Aunt  Anne— 


198  THE  MADIGANS 

the  entire  evening  having  been  taken  up  with 
arranging  an  order  of  business,  and  not  a 
stroke  of  business  accomplished. 

But  the  Split  sphere  of  influence  over  the 
disputed  territory  of  Frances  was  consider 
ably  circumscribed  by  the  affair  of  the  stage 
coach.  It  stood— a  dusty,  lumbering  vehicle 
that  made  daily  trips  down  from  the  mountain 
to  the  small  towns  in  the  canon— upon  a  raised 
platform  in  front  of  Baldy  Bob's.  Baldy 
Bob,  who  departed  with  it  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning  and  returned  late  in  the  afternoon, 
hauled  it  each  day  up  on  to  the  platform,  in 
tending  to  get  out  the  hose  and  wash  it  off— 
after  dinner  when  he  came  back  from  down 
town.  But  he  never  came  back  till  time  to  hitch 
up  and  start  down  the  canon  again.  So  the 
old  coach  was  left  high  and  dry,  while  the 
sun  went  down  behind  Mount  Davidson  and 
the  brightest  stars  in  all  the  world  shone  out 
from  a  black-blue  firmament  unmarred  by  the 
smallest  haze. 

Till  Split  discovered  it. 

To  Split,  who  had  never  traveled  by  any 
means  other  than  her  own  lithe  limbs  and  Jack 
Cody's  sled,  the  coach's  big,  low,  dusty  body, 
its  heavy  high  wheels,  its  dusky  interior  smell 
ing  of  heated  leather  and  twig-scented,  sum- 


THE  LAST  STRAW  199 

mer-sunned  country  dust,  were  romance  in 
carnate.  It  meant  voyaging  to  her,  this  coach : 
strange  sights,  queer  peoples,  the  sea  that  she 
had  never  seen,  the  rippling  of  rivers  she  had 
never  heard,  the  smell  of  pasture-land,  of  pine 
forests,  of  lake-dipped  willows,  of  flowers- 
valleys  full  of  flowers,  like  those  that  bloomed 
in  Mrs.  Pemberton's  garden,  but  unlike  those 
enchanted  blossoms  in  not  being  irrevocably 
attached  to  the  bush  on  which  they  grew,  and 
unguarded  by  any  Mrs.  Ramrod,  whose  most 
gracious  act  was  to  hold  up  a  rose  on  its  stalk 
between  forefinger  and  thumb  and  permit  a 
flower-hungry  girl  to  bend  down  and  sniff  it. 
On  the  same  principle,  Mrs.  Ramrod  showed 
her  preserves,  but  she  never  bestowed  a  rose 
"for  keeps, "  nor  did  it  ever  seem  to  occur  to 
her  that  one  might  want  a  taste  of  that  which 
made  her  glass  jars  so  temptingly  beautiful. 

Split  "took  a  dare"  the  first  time  she 
mounted  Baldy  Bob's  coach.  She  climbed  up 
to  the  driver's  high  seat  in  front  with  as  much 
hidden  trepidation  but  as  unhesitatingly  as 
she  would  have  plunged  down  a  shaft,  to  show 
Sissy,  who  was  a  coward,  how  brave  her  sister 
was. 

But  after  she  got  up  there,  Sissy  faded  out  of 
the  world.  In  Baldy  Bob's  coach  Split  was 


200  THE  MADIGANS 

seized  with  Wanderlust.  She  sat  erect  and 
still  up  there  in  front,  her  hands  clasped  in  her 
lap,  her  shining  eyes  averted  from  the  motion 
less  tongue  below  and  fixed  on  the  unrolling 
landscapes  of  the  world ;  on  plains  and  valleys, 
on  villages  nestling  in  trees  and  flying  past, 
on  great  rolling  fields  of  grain— perhaps  a 
smooth,  light,  continuous  sort  of  sage-brush, 
wrinkling  in  the  wind  as  the  sunflowers  seem 
to  when  one  looks  up  at  the  mountain  from 
the  sluice-box. 

Yet  with  the  advent  of  Frances  into  this 
strange  game  of  rapt  silences  there  came  a 
change.  Frank's  imagination  did  not  tempt 
her  abroad  strange  countries  for  to  see;  she 
merely  wanted  to  ride  down  and  off  the  plat 
form. 

"Make  it  go,  Split, "  she  begged,  with  a 
trust  in  her  big  sister's  capacity  that  Split 
would  have  perished  rather  than  admit  to  be 
unfounded. 

"Will  you  hold  on  tight !"  she  asked 
Frances. 

The  child  nodded,  grasping  the  dashboard 
firmly.  With  the  ease  of  long  practice,  Split 
got  to  the  big  wheel  and  leaped  to  the  ground. 
She  had  noticed  the  big  stone  which  Baldy 
Bob  had  slipped  in  front  of  the  hind,  wheel, 


THE  LAST  STRAW  201 

and  she  fancied  it  was  part  of  the  reason  why 
the  stage-coach  could  not  be  moved. 

She  was  mistaken:  it  was  the  whole  reason. 
And  when  Split  had  pushed  and  tugged  and 
kicked  with  all  her  strength,  laying  herself  flat 
at  last  and  bracing  her  toes  against  the  other 
wheel  to  get  a  leverage,  her  first  feeling  when 
she  saw  the  coach  move  above  her  head  was  of 
delight  at  the  unexpected.  Her  second  was  of 
unmixed  terror;  for,  gaining  an  impetus  from 
its  descent  on  the  inclined  plane  that  led  from 
the  platform,  the  coach  rattled  briskly  d^wn 
Sutton  Avenue,  headed  for  the  canon,  with 
Frank  clutching  the  dashboard  and  laughing 
aloud  in  glee. 

Split  Madigan  had  always  fancied  she 
could  run.  She  never  knew  how  impotent  hu 
man  fleetness  is  till  she  saw  that  lumbering 
coach  go  plunging  swiftly  and  more  swiftly 
away  from  her,  across  B  Street,  and  tearing 
down  the  next  hill  with  a  speed  that  made  her 
puny  efforts  laughable. 

Baldy  Bob,  emerging  from  the  saloon  on  the 
corner  with  that  feverishly  distorted  view  of 
the  world  due  to  never  going  back  home  after 
dinner  down-town,  saw  his  coach  come  down 
upon  him  as  if  to  demand  the  washing  so  long 
promised.  If  it  had  been  morning,  he  would 


202  THE  MADIGANS 

have  been  properly  afraid  of  getting  in  the  way 
of  the  monster  let  loose.  But  in  the  evening 
Bob  was  accustomed  to  the  occurrence  of  pe 
culiar  things.  So  he  ran— at  that  time  of  day 
he  could  run  better  than  walk— out  to  the  mid 
dle  of  the  street,  threw  up  his  arms,  and  called 
hoarsely  upon  the  mad  thing  to  stop. 

It  did— for  a  moment,  when  it  came  in  con 
tact  with  his  body ;  but  it  was  long  enough  for 
its  course  to  be  deflected  from  the  steep  hill 
below  and  turned  northward  down  the  com 
paratively  level  cross  street. 

When  Bob  picked  himself  up  and  followed, 
he  found  a  thin,  white-faced,  red-haired  girl 
running  swiftly  beside  him.  Later  he  accom 
panied  her  and  the  plucky  little  Frank  (still 
smiling  and  chuckling  over  her  fine  ride)  up 
the  hill  to  the  home  of  Mr.  Francis  Madigan, 
where  he  demanded  damages— both  personal 
and  mechanical. 

"And  fa-ther  tooked  her  in  his  own  room," 
Frank  said  with  shuddering  unction,  as  she 
told  the  tale,  '  *  and  she  's  in  there  yet ! ' ' 

It  was   Fom  who   awakened   a  sense   of  the 
beautiful  in  Frank.     She  and  Bep  were  con 
tinually  playing  London  Bridge,  in  the  course 
of  which  it  became  necessary  to  demand: 
"Which  would  you  rather  have  (that  means, 


THE  LAST  STRAW  203 

like  best) :  a  diamond  horse  covered  with  stars, 
or  a  golden  cradle  with  red  silk  pillows  ?" 

Sentiment  and  the  sad  experience  of  her 
babyhood  always  prompted  Frank  to  choose 
the  cradle,  of  course.  After  which,  her  pref 
erence  promptly  became  of  no  importance 
whatever ;  the  whole  beautiful  business  was  put 
aside,  and  she  was  bidden  to  get  behind  Fom. 
She  discovered  later  that  whether  she  pre 
ferred  diamonds  and  stars  to  gold  and  red  silk, 
it  was  all  the  same:  she  invariably  had  to  get 
behind  one  twin  or  the  other,  clasp  her  tightly 
about  the  waist,  and  pull— and  pull— till  the 
whole  universe  gave  way  and  she  plumped 
down  on  the  ground  with  a  big  twin  falling  on 
top  of  her. 

But  there  was  another  phase  of  the  beautiful 
which  was  far  more  satisfactory  to  Frank, 
while  it  lasted.  Fom  discovered  it  one  day 
when  Split  took  Dora  away  from  her,  just 
because  the  brunette  twin  preferred  her  lunch 
to  the  burned  potatoes  Split  had  baked  in  the 
back  yard  when  they  were  playing  emigrants. 
It  was  then,  in  the  depths  of  her  grief,  that  the 
inspiration  came  to  her. 

"Shall  Fom  make  you  look  awful  pretty, 
Frank  ?"  she  asked,  in  the  form  which  children 
suppose  wheedles  babies  most  successfully. 

Frank  did  n't  know;  she  was  suspicious  of 


204  THE  MADIGANS 

the  hollowness  of  the  beautiful  and  the  inutility 
of  choosing.  Besides,  she  was  making  dolls' 
biscuit  just  then  from  a  piece  of  dough  Wong 
had  given  her,  cutting  out  each  individual  bun 
with  Aunt  Anne's  thimble. 

But  Florence  coaxed  and  threatened  and 
bribed,  and  when  Francis  Madigan  got  home 
that  night  to  dinner,  he  found  his  big  porch 
covered  with  children  gathered  from  blocks 
around.  Each  held  in  his  or  her  hand  one  pin  or 
more— the  price  of  admission  to  the  show. 
(Fom  was  a  most  thrifty  and  businesslike 
Madigan.)  And  the  show,  which  he  as  well  as 
they  saw  in  the  interval  between  the  opening 
of  his  front  door  and  its  swift  closing,  was 
Frances's  plump,  naked  body  draped  in  a 
sheet,  posing,  with  uplifted  arms  and  an  un 
certain,  apprehensive  smile,  on  a  tottering 
draped  pedestal,  which  fell  with  a  crash  when 
Fom,  who  was  crouched  behind  steadying  it, 
beheld  her  father's  face. 

"And  he  tooked  her,"  with  bated  breath 
Frank  repeated  the  monotonous  refrain  of  her 
saga,  "and  he  made  her  thwow  evewy— pin- 
she  'd  made— out  the  fwont  window!" 

As    a    Madigan,    Frances    should    have    been 
above  fear.     She  was— except  of  the  tank  in 


THE  LAST  STRAW  205 

the  back  room  up-stairs.  Its  gurglings  and 
chucklings  were  more  than  mortal  four-years- 
old  could  bear  at  night  in  the  dark,  particu 
larly  after  Bep  had  taught  her  to  be  super 
stitious. 

Bep's  nature  was  spongy  with  a  capacity 
for  saturation.  She  took  in  every  new  child 
fad  and  folly.  She  believed  in  a  multiplicity 
of  remedies,  and  was  ready  to  try  a  new  one— 
on  somebody  else— whenever  the  occasion  of 
fered.  When  Frank  got  the  whooping-cough, 
and  used  to  march  around  the  dining-room 
table,  stamping  in  her  paroxysms  of  coughing 
and  of  speechless  anger  at  the  Madigans  who 
followed  mimicking  her,  Bep  decided  that  she 
would  try  the  latest  cure  she  had  heard  of.  So 
she  wandered  down  to  the  gas-works  one  day, 
Frank's  hand  in  hers,  to  give  her  patient  the 
benefit  of  breathing  the  heavily  charged  at 
mosphere  down  there. 

"How-do,  Mrs.  Grayson?"  she  greeted  the 
gas-man's  wife  amiably,  as  she  opened  the 
kitchen  door. 

Mrs.  Grayson,  her  babies  leaving  her  side  to 
cluster  interestedly  around  Frank,  replied  that 
she  and  the  children  were  well;  that  the  epi 
demic  of  whooping-cough  had  not  reached 
them  because  they  lived  so  far  out  of  town. 


206  THE  MADIGANS 

"Yes,"  assented  Bep,  politely;  "and  then, 
the  smell  of  gas  is  so  good  for  whooping-cough. 
That  keeps  'em  well.  And  that  's  why  I 
brought  Frank  down  here." 

Mrs.  Grayson 's  excitable  motherhood  took 
alarm.  "I  never  heard, "  she  said  quickly, 
"that  breathing  in  coal-tar  smells  kept  off 
whooping-cough. ' ' 

"No,  neither  did  I,  though  p'r'aps  it  does. 
But  it  cures— I  know  that." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say—"  Mrs.  Grayson 
flew  like  a  terrified  hen  for  her  chicks,  lifting 
two  by  an  arm  each  clear  from  the  ground  and 
hustling  the  third  into  the  kitchen  before  her. 

"Yep,  she  's  got  it,"  said  Bep,  proudly. 
And  Frank,  feeling  called  upon  to  be  interest 
ing,  burst  into  a  convulsive  corroboration  of 
the  glad  tidings. 

"You  nasty  little  minx!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Grayson,  as  she  shut  the  door  in  Bep 's  face. 

"What  's  'minx'?"  Frank  asked  her  sister, 
as  they  toiled  up  toward  town  again. 

"Oh,  it  's  a  wild  animal,"  answered  Bep, 
readily;  "but  she  don't  know  how  to  say  it. 
She  's  going  to  have  bad  luck,  though;  any 
body  can  tell  that  by  the  way  she  walked  under 
that  ladder.  I  should  n't  be  a  bit  surprised  if 
every  last  one  of  her  children  gets  the  whoop 
ing-cough  ! ' ' 


THE  LAST  STRAW  207 

And  Frank  felt  sorry  for  the  Graysons. 
For  she  was  sure  that  Bep  knew  whereof  she 
spoke.  She  knew  the  laws  of  the  supersti 
tious  country  in  which  she  dwelt,  did  Bep:  a 
country  where  if  you  sing  before  you  eat, 
you  7re  bound  to  cry  before  you  sleep;  where, 
if  you  put  your  corset-waist  on  wrong  side 
out,  and  are  hardy  enough  to  change  it,  you 
deserve  what  you  're  likely  to  get;  where 
no  sane  girl  will  tempt  Providence  by  walk 
ing  on  a  crack;  where,  if  you  lose  something, 
you  have  only  to  spit  in  the  palm  of  your 
hand,— if  you  're  dowered  in  the  matter 
of  saliva,— strike  the  tiny  pool  sharply,  and 
say: 

"  Spit,  spit,  spider! 
If  you  show  me  where  my  pencil  is 
I  '11  give  you  a  keg  of  cider!" 

Then  note  the  direction  which  the  escaping 
particles  of  saliva  take,  and  there  you  are !  or, 
rather,  there  it  is— the  lost  article. 

Or  there  it  ought  to  be,  unless  you  have 
been  guilty  of  some  inexcusable  act,  such  as 
omitting  to  wish  at  the  very  instant  a  star 
is  falling,  or  the  first  time  you  taste  each 
new  fruit  in  season,  or  if  you  have  forgotten 
to  say: 


208  THE  MADIGANS 

"  Star  light,  star  bright, 
First  star  I  Ve  seen  to-night, 
I  wish  I  may,  I  wish  I  might 
Have  the  wish  I  wish  to-night !  ' ' 

It  was  Bep  who  taught  Frank  to  count  white 
horses;  to  pick  up  a  pin  when  its  head  was 
turned  toward  her,  to  let  it  lie  when  it  pointed 
the  other  way;  to  bite  the  tea-grounds  left  in 
a  cup,  and  declare  gravely,  if  soft,  that  a  fe 
male  visitor  might  be  expected,  and,  if  hard, 
a  male;  never  to  cut  friendship  by  giving  or 
accepting  a  knife,  a  pin— indeed,  anything 
sharp ;  and  never,  by  any  chance,  to  tempt  the 
devil  of  bad  luck  by  going  out  of  a  house  by 
a  different  door  than  that  by  which  she  had 
entered. 

The  versatile  Frank  was  most  teachable. 
When  Bep  was  "collecting  bows,"  Frances 
would  obligingly  bow  and  bob  for  her  minutes 
at  a  time,  like  a  Chinese  mandarin,  or  like 
some  small  priestess  observing  a  solemn  rite. 
What  the  Bad  Luck  was,  the  terrible  al 
ternative  of  all  these  precautions,  poor  Frank 
could  form  no  idea.  But  she  had  come 
to  associate  it  with  the  babbling  tank,  which 
seemed  at  night,  when  all  was  still,  to  be  gur 
gling,  "Bad  Luck— Bad  Luck!"  threateningly 
at  her. 


THE  LAST  STRAW  209 

Then  she  would  go  over  her  conduct  during 
the  day,  carefully  scrutinizing  her  every  action 
that  might  have  given  this  chuckling  Bad  Luck 
a  hold  over  her.  t 

Not  a  crack  had  been  stepped  on  that  she 
could  remember;  not  a  pin  picked  up  that 
should  have  been  let  lie;  not— 

The  scream  that  burst  from  Frances  one 
Sunday  night  during  this  self-catechism 
brought  Madigan  and  all  the  family  to  her 
bedside. 

"What  is  it— what  is  it,  child?"  demanded 
her  father. 

And  Frank  repeated  like  a  Maeterlinck  or 
a  bobolink,  holding  up  a  shaking  small  hand 
whose  nails  Aunt  Anne  had  trimmed  that  very 
morning : 

"Monday  for  health, 
Tuesday  for  wealth, 
Wednesday  the  best  day  of  all. 
Thursday  for  cwosses, 
Fwiday  for  losses- 
Saturday  no  day  at  all. 
And  better  the  child  had  never  been  bawn 
That  pared  its  nails  on  a  Sunday  mawn!" 

"And  fa-ther  tooked  Bep,"  remarked  Frank 
the  next  day,  the  light  of  desire  fulfilled  in  her 


210  THE  MADIGANS 

eye,  "and  he  said  'You  ox!'  and  smacked  her 
wif  two  fingers!" 

Miss  Madigan,  who  was  a  congenital  senti 
mentalist,  her  tendency  confirmed  by  a  long 
course  of  novel-reading,  would  have  loved  a 
female  Fauntleroy,  and  hoped  to  find  it  in  each 
of  her  brother's  children  in  turn— only  to  be 
bitterly  disappointed  when  they  came  to  an 
expressing  age. 

It  occurred  to  her  once  to  satisfy  her  ma 
ternal  cravings— so  perversely  left  ungratified 
amid  much  material  that  lacked  mothering 
—with  an  imported  angel-child.  She  chose 
Bombey  Forrest's  three-year-old  brother  for 
the  purpose;  a  small  manikin  manufactured 
according  to  recipe  by  his  mother,  whom  he 
had  been  taught  to  call  "Dear-rust"  in  imi 
tation  of  his  pernicious  progenitor;  whose 
curls  were  as  long,  whose  trousers  were  as 
short,  whose  collars  were  as  big,  whose  sashes 
were  as  flaunting  as  feminine  folly  could  make 
them. 

The  Madigans  hailed  his  advent  with  delight 
the  night  he  was  loaned  to  their  aunt,  in  their 
mistaken  glee  fancying  his  visit  was  to  them 
selves.  Miss  Madigan  soon  undeceived  them. 
At  table  he  sat  next  to  that  devoted  lady,  who 


THE  LAST  STRAW  211 

heaped  the  choicest  bits  upon  his  plate  of  a 
menu    which    had    been    ordered    solely   with 
regard    to    infantile   tastes.      Afterward    this 
maiden    lady    (whose    genius    for    mothering 
cruel  fate  had  condemned  to  waste  its  sweet 
ness  upon  half  a  dozen  mere  Madigans)  built 
card  houses  for  her  borrowed  baby,  read  him 
the  nursery  rhymes  that  Sissy  used  to  tell  to 
Frances,  confiscated  Fom's  Dora  for  his  plea 
sure,  and  Split's  book  of  interiors  made  of 
illustrated  advertisements  of  furniture,  which 
she  had  cut  out  and  arranged  tastefully  upon 
a  tissue-paper  background.     She  dangled  her 
old-fashioned  enameled  watch  before  his  jaded 
eyes,  and  even  permitted  him  to  hold  Dusie, 
the  canary,  who  pecked  furiously  at  the  pre 
suming  hand  that  detained  her. 

At  this  the  borrowed  baby  set  up  a  howl  of 
alarm,  whereupon  he  was  given  Sissy's  jack- 
stones-not  altogether  to  that  young  lady's  sor 
row,  for  at  that  moment  Split  was  collecting  a 
cruel  pinch  or  bestowing  a  stinging  slap  for 
every  point  in  the  game  she  had  just  won. 

To  the  bathing  of  the  child  Miss  Madigan 
gave  her  personal  attention,  while  Kate  waited 
for  the  tub,  into  which  it  was  her  nightly  task 
to  coax  Frances.  Then,  when  her  charge  was 
ready  for  bed,  the  devoted  aunt  of  other  chil- 


212  THE  MADIGANS 

dren  sat  rocking  the  borrowed  baby  softly  till 
he  fell  asleep.  The  whole  household  hushed 
that  night  when  Baby  Fauntleroy  Forrest's  eye 
lids  fell.  An  indignant  lot  of  young  Madigans 
were  hustled  off  to  bed  that  his  slumbers  might 
not  be  disturbed;  and  yet  the  moment  Miss 
Madigan  laid  him,  with  infinite  care  and  a 
sentimental  smile,  in  her  own  bed,  his  eyes 
flew  open,  like  the  disordered  orbs  of  a  wax 
doll  that  has  forgotten  it  was  made  to  open 
its  eyes  when  in  a  vertical  position  and  keep 
them  shut  when  placed  horizontally.  He  saw 
a  strange  face  bending  over  him,  and  he  howled 
with  terror. 

Miss  Madigan  tried  to  comfort  him,  babbling 
fondest  baby-talk  in  vain. 

"I  yant  to  go  home!"  wailed  Aunt  Anne's 
Fauntleroy. 

Why,  no;  he  did  n't  want  to  go  home,  the 
lady  to  whom  he  had  been  loaned  assured  him. 
Mama  was  asleep  and  daddy  was  asleep  and 
Bombey  was  asleep  and  the  pussy  was— 

"I  yant  to  go  home!"  bellowed  the  bor 
rowed  baby. 

But  how  could  he  go  home?  the  lady,  a  bit 
impatiently,  demanded.  Was  n't  he  all  un 
dressed!  Did  he  want  to  go  through  the 
streets  all  undressed— fie,  fie,  for  shame! 


THE  LAST  STKAW  213 

"I  yant  to  go  home!"  screamed  Fauntleroy 
Forrest. 

"Sissy— Irene— some  one  come  here  and 
amuse  this  child!"  called  Aunt  Anne,  at  her 
wits'  end.  Fauntleroy  was  black  in  the  face 
from  holding  his  breath,  and  his  borrower  was 
nervously  exhausted  by  the  tension  of  a  day 
spent  in  attendance  upon  the  lovely  child. 

A  troop  of  nightgowned  Madigans  came 
joyously  in.  For  the  edification  of  Fauntleroy, 
sitting  up  wide-eyed  now  in  Aunt  Anne's  big 
bed,  the  tears  still  on  his  cheeks,  the  Madigans 
made  monkeys  of  themselves  till  he  dropped  off 
asleep  at  last,  when  they  were  dismissed  by  a 
frazzled  maiden  lady,  who  was  left  looking 
at  the  small  thing  lying  in  her  bed  as  at  some 
strange  animal  whose  waking  she  dreaded. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  and  again  toward 
morning  the  Madigans  heard  Fauntleroy 's 
frightened  scream,  and  chuckled  like  the 
depraved  young  things  they  were.  But  when 
Francis  Madigan  got  up  and,  candle  in  hand, 
his  queer  nightcap  tumbling  over  his  left  eye, 
and  his  gaunt  shadow  covering  the  wall  and 
wavering  over  the  ceiling,  came  to  demand 
of  Miss  Madigan  what  in  thousand  devils  was 
the  matter,  the  borrowed  baby  was  thrown  into 
convulsions;  while  Don,  the  big  Newfound- 


214  THE  MADIGANS 

land,  awakened  by  the  din,  burst  into  hoarse 
barks  that  the  mountains  echoed  and  reechoed. 
After  this  it  seemed  best  to  Aunt  Anne  to  sit 
up  in  bed  for  the  rest  of  the  night,  making 
shadow-pictures  on  the  wall  for  Fauntleroy. 

Miss  Madigan's  high  color  had  faded  the 
next  morning.  Accustomed  to  unbroken  sleep, 
she  had  not  rested  half  an  hour  the  whole  night. 
It  seemed  that  Fauntleroy  Forrest  was  in  the 
habit  of  lying  across  his  bed  instead  of  along 
it,  and  he  had  so  terrorized  the  poor  lady  that 
she  had  not  dared  to  move  him,  when  he  did 
fall  asleep  toward  morning  and  she  felt  his 
toes  digging  into  her  ribs,  lest  he  wake. 

" Hurry  with  your  breakfast,  Sissy,"  she 
said  faintly,  sipping  her  tea,  "so  that  you  can 
take  him  home  before  school." 

"Don't  yant  to  go  home!"  whimpered  the 
baby,  whom  the  morning  light  and  the  pres 
ence  of  many  small  Madigans  had  reassured. 

"He  could  stay  and  play  with  Frank,  could 
n't  he,  Aunt  Anne?"  suggested  Sissy,  sweetly. 

Miss  Madigan's  look  spoke  volumes. 

' '  Yes,  yes, ' '  cried  Fauntleroy.  ' '  Don 't  yant 
to  go  home!" 

His  papa  would  be  lonesome,  Miss  Madigan 
told  him,  archly ;  and  his  mama  would  be  lone 
some,  and  Bombey— 


THE  LAST  STRAW  215 

" Don't  yant  to  go  home!"  wept  the  baby. 

"There!  There!  .  .  .  Take  him,  Frank,  into 
my  room  and  amuse  him— anything,  only  don't 
let  him  cry ! ' '  exclaimed  Miss  Madigan.  "  I  'm 
going  into  Kate's  room  to  lie  down.  I  'm  ex 
hausted  and—" 

"Did  Fauntleroy  disturb  you,  Aunt  Anne?" 
asked  Kate,  sympathetically. 

But  Miss  Madigan  hurried  away.  She  was 
so  unnerved  she  feared  that  she  might  weep. 
But,  after  nearly  half  an  hour's  trying,  she 
found  she  was  too  tired  to  sleep,  after  all,  and 
rising  wearily,  she  went  back  to  her  room  for 
the  book  she  had  been  reading. 

The  sight  that  met  her  eyes,  as  she  opened 
the  door,  completed  her  undoing.  There  was 
Fauntleroy,  with  an  uncomprehending  grin  on 
his  cherubic  face,  pinching  each  separate  leaf 
of  her  cherished  sensitive-plant.  Evidently 
the  borrowed  baby  did  not  exactly  understand 
the  desperately  funny  quality  of  the  act,  but 
he  knew  it  must  be  the  funniest  thing  in 
the  world,  for  the  Madigans  were  writhing 
grotesquely  in  the  unbounded  merriment  it 
caused. 

With  a  cry,  Miss  Madigan  flew  forward  and 
sharply  slapped  the  destructive  baby  hands. 

"I  yant  to  go  home!"  screamed  Fauntleroy. 


216  THE  MADIGANS 

' '  Yes ;  and  I  want  you  to  go,  too ' '  Miss  Madi- 
gan  declared,  incensed.  ' '  Get  his  things,  Sissy, 
this  minute." 

"But  I  want  him  to  play  wif,"  whimpered 
Frank.  She  was  not  so  slow  but  that  she  could 
learn  the  lesson  Fauntleroy's  success  taught. 

Miss  Madigan  looked  at  her  a  moment. 
"Oh,  you  do!"  she  ejaculated  sarcastically. 
"You  have  n't  sisters  enough— you  want  more 
noise  and  confusion  in  this  house!" 

The  wise  Madigans  looked  from  her  to  one 
another  and  merely  thought  things.  There 
was  sadly  little  of  the  "angel  child"  about 
them.  Their  intuition  was  keen  enough  to 
penetrate  their  aunt's  secret  wishes  and  tastes, 
and  they  were  occasionally  tempted,  for  the 
spoils  to  be  gotten  out  of  it,  to  play  up  to 
that  lady's  ideals.  But  Aunt  Anne  was  con 
sidered  almost  too  easy  by  the  Madi 
gans,  whom  honor  restricted  to  those  foemen 
worthy  of  their  steel.  Frances  was  the  only 
one  who  could,  without  losing  caste,  cater  to 
her  aunt's  well-known  and  deeply  detested  sen 
timentality. 

She  did  for  a  time,  and  it  was  from  Miss 
Madigan  that  she  learned  her  famous  accom 
plishment.  It  was  sung,  or  rather  droned,  and 
it  went  like  this : 


THE  LAST  STRAW  217 

"  B-A-Ba, 
B-E-Be, 
B-I-Bi— 
Ba— Be— Bi; 
B-O-Bo, 
Ba— Be— Bi— Bo, 
B-U-Bu, 
Ba— Be— Bi— Bo-Bu!  " 

Intoxicated  by  success,  Frank  sang  this  sub 
tle  ditty  one  day  for  Francis  Madigan.  He  lis 
tened  to  it  with  that  puzzled  expression  which 
his  children's  vagaries  brought  to  his  lined, 
stern  face. 

1 '  Who  taught  you  that  nonsense,  Frances  ? ' ' 
he  demanded  sternly  when  she  had  finished. 

Frank  began  to  whimper.  This  was  not  the 
effect  she  had  intended  to  produce. 

"Who  told  you  to  say  that  gibberish  1"  her 
father  repeated  angrily. 

Frank  stammered  the  answer. 

"And  he  tooked  her—"  she  began  her  ac 
count  of  the  incident  afterward. 

"Oh,  you  awful  little  liar!"  interrupted  a 
chorus  of  Madigans. 

And  Frank  laughed  with  them.  How  she 
would  have  completed  the  sentence,  if  she  had 
been  permitted,  she  herself  did  not  know. 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER 

SPLIT  threw  herself  with  a  bump  against 
Miss  Madigan's  door.     It  remained  un- 
answeringly  closed. 

"Where  's  Aunt  Anne?"  she  asked  Sissy, 
whom  she  had  nearly  walked  over  as  she  sat 
playing  jackstones  in  the  hall. 

Sissy  looked  up.  Assuming  a  rigidly  erect 
position  and  scholastically  correct  finger-move 
ment,  she  mimicked  her  aunt  at  her  desk  so 
faithfully  that  Split  could  almost  see  the 
close-lined  pages  of  Miss  Madigan's  ornate 
handwriting  on  the  carpet  where  her  disre 
spectful  niece  pretended  to  trace  it. 

"Scribbling,  huh?"  Split  asked. 

Sissy  nodded. 

Split  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently. 
She  had  intended  to  ask  a  favor  of  Aunt  Anne, 
but  she  knew  how  useless  it  would  be  now.  So 
she  pushed  past  Sissy,  entered  the  room  softly, 
and  returned  with  a  long-trained  grenadine 
skirt. 

221 


222  THE  MADIGANS 

Sissy's  round  eyes  opened  enviously.  "Did 
she  say  you  could  have  it?"  she  asked. 

A  muffled  sound  which  could  be  variously 
interpreted  came  from  Split,  who  was  throw 
ing  the  skirt  over  her  head. 

"Did  she?"  persisted  Sissy,  putting  her 
jackstones  in  her  pocket  and  rising  emula- 
tively. 

But  Irene  was  doubling  fold  after  fold  of  the 
skirt  in  front  to  shorten  it ;  behind  her  the  train 
billowed  with  an  elegance  that  sent  ecstatic 
thrills  through  her  and  a  passion  of  envy 
through  her  sister. 

"Is  she  writing  yet?"  Sissy  asked  at  length. 

Irene  nodded.  She  was  cinching  her  sash 
tight  about  the  waist,  so  that  her  trained  skirt 
might  not  come  off  in  the  ardor  of  "playing 
lady."  When  Sissy  disappeared,  and  reap 
peared  with  her  aunt's  claret-colored  poplin, 
Split  was  catching  up  her  train  with  a  grace 
that  was  simply  ravishing  as  she  rustled  away. 

"What  '11  you  say  to  her— afterward?" 
called  Sissy  after  her,  prudently  facing  the 
future,  even  in  the  height  of  delight  induced 
by  feeling  ruffles  about  her  feet. 

"Pouf!"  A  train  meant  domesticity  and 
dignity  to  Sissy.  In  Split  it  bred  and  fos 
tered  a  spirit  of  coquetry ;  she  believed  herself 


A  READY  LETTER- WRITER     225 

to  be  very  French  in  long  skirts.  "I  '11  just 
say  she  said  'Yes'  when  I  asked  her.  She 
never  knows  what  she  says  when  she  's  writ 
ing." 

Sissy  nodded  understandingly,  and  rustled 
in  a  most  ladylike  manner  after  her  senior. 
The  twins  saw  the  two  beautiful  creatures 
swishing  down  the  front  steps,  bound  for  the 
street  to  show  their  glory  and  feel  the  pea 
cock's  delight  in  dragging  his  tail  in  the  dust. 

i 'Did  she  say  you  could  have  'em?"  they 
shrieked. 

And  Sissy  responded  with  that  quick  imi 
tative  gesture  that  signified  scribbling. 

With  a  light  on  their  faces  such  as  the  Goths 
might  have  worn  when  pillaging  Rome,  the 
twins  made  for  the  treasure-house.  A  few 
moments  later  they  rustled  gorgeously  down 
the  steps,  followed  by  Frances,  wearing  her 
aunt's  embroidered  red  flannel  petticoat.  Un 
fortunately,  Frank's  heels  caught  in  this,  as 
she  too  strutted  worldward,  and  down  she  fell, 
bumping  from  step  to  step,  gaining  momentum 
as  she  bumped,  and  threatening  to  roll  clear 
down  to  Taylor  Street,  and  so  on  down,  down 
into  the  canon,  if  she  had  not  bumped  safely 
at  last  into  the  twins.  They,  hearing  her  com 
ing,  had  turned  their  backs  and  joined  hands, 


226  THE  MADIGANS 

and  catching  hold  of  the  shaky  banister  on 
each  side,  presented  a  natural  bulwark  beyond 
which  Frances  and  her  bumps  and  shrieks 
might  not  pass. 

And  through  it  all  Miss  Madigan  wrote. 

Miss  Madigan  was  writing  letters.  Indeed, 
Miss  Madigan  was  always  writing  letters.  In 
any  emergency  she  might  be  trusted  to  concoct 
a  long  and  literary  epistle,  which  she  re 
phrased,  edited,  and  copied  till  she  felt  all  an 
author's  satisfaction. 

For  the  Madigans'  Aunt  Anne  was  afflicted 
with  cacoethes  scribendi,  and  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  there  was  a  letter  to  be  written 
—except  when  she  was  actually  writing  it.  But 
the  heartlessness  of  the  merely  literary  was 
very  far  indeed  from  Miss  Madigan 's  ideal. 
She  had  the  happiness  to  believe  that,  besides 
being  very  beautiful,  her  letters  were  most  use 
ful—in  fact,  indispensable.  When  everything 
else  failed  she  wrote  a  letter.  When  that  failed 
she  wrote  another. 

A  Malthusian  consequence  of  her  epistolary 
fertility,  it  might  be  feared,  would  be  the  ne 
cessary  exhaustion  of  correspondents.  But 
Miss  Madigan 's  was  a  soul  above  the  inevi 
table,  as  well  as  a  pen  divorced  from  the  prac- 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     227 

tieal.  On  those  occasions  when  the  future  of 
her  nieces  pressed  itself  questioningly  upon 
that  lady's  mind  she  met  the  threat  by  de 
claring  firmly  to  herself  that  she  would 
"do  her  duty  to  those  motherless  children." 
It  happened  that  her  duty  was  her  pleasure. 
It  was  her  dissipation  to  suffer— on  paper.  In 
letters  she  enjoyed  being  miserable.  No  rela 
tive,  therefore,  however  distant,  no  acquain 
tance,  however  slight,  was  exempt  from  this 
epistolary  plague.  To  take  the  darkest  view, 
most  genteelly  expressed;  to  make  the  most 
forthright  and  pitiful  appeal  in  a  ladylike  and 
polished  phrase;  to  picture  the  inevitable  and 
speedy  alternative  if  her  plea  were  disre 
garded;  and  then  to  sign  herself,  "With  a 
thousand  apologies,  and  the  assurance  that 
only  the  extreme  need  of  some  one's  doing 
something  for  poor  Francis's  children  would 
bring  me  to  trouble  you  again,"— this  was 
Miss  Madigan's  vice.  And  she  was  as  intem 
perate  in  yielding  to  it  as  only  the  viciously 
good  can  be. 

A  rebuff,  absolute  silence,  even  the  return 
of  her  letter  unopened,  produced  in  her  not 
the  slightest  diminution  of  faith  in  the  power 
of  her  pen.  Invariably  when  she  mailed  a  let 
ter  she  was  so  struck  by  her  own  summing  up 


228  THE  MADIGANS 

of  the  situation  that  she  felt  there  could  not 
be  the  smallest  doubt  of  a  favorable  response. 
He  who  read  it  must  be  convinced.  If  he  was 
not,  why,  there  was  but  one  thing  to  do— write 
to  him  again.  If  not  to  him,  to  another.  And 
the  Madigans  were  a  prolific  family,  its  mem 
bers  widely  scattered  and  differentiated — an 
ideal  clientele  for  a  ready  letter-writer. 

So  Miss  Madigan  wrote.  Her  wardrobe  was 
pillaged,  her  privacy  violated,  yet  she  knew  it 
not,  or  knew  it  only  as  one  is  aware  of  the  buzz 
ing  of  gnats  when  he  rides  his  hobby  through 
a  cloud  of  them. 

But  there  came  an  interruption  which  she 
was  compelled  to  heed. 

"Anne,  I  say!" 

Miss  Madigan 's  busy  pen  paused.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  there  was  unusual  irritation  in  her 
brother's  irascible  voice.  Was  it  possible  that 
he  had  knocked  before,  or  was  there— 

The  door  opened  in  answer  to  her  call,  and 
Madigan  stalked  in.  At  sight  of  the  open  let 
ter  he  held,  Miss  Madigan  hastily  covered  the 
one  she  was  writing. 

" Perhaps,'7  said  her  brother,  suppressed 
rage,  vibrating  in  his  voice, ' '  it  may  be  a  change 
for  you  to  read  letters.  Read  that!"  He 


"Stamping  .   .  .  in  a  frenzy" 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER      231 

threw  the  page  on  the  desk  before  her,  banging 
his  knuckles  upon  it  in  an  excess  of  fury. 

She  took  up  the  letter,  a  pretty  rosy  pink  dye 
ing  her  cheeks  (she  was  one  of  those  old  maids 
whose  exquisitely  delicate  complexions  retain 
a  babylike  freshness)  as  her  eyes  met  the  ex 
pression  : 

Anne  was  always  a  sot  where  her  pen  was  con 
cerned.  The  habit's  growing  on  her;  she  can  evi 
dently  no  more  resist  it  than  Miles  could  the  bottle. 

"It  must  be  from  Nora  Madigan,"  she  ex 
claimed,  recognizing  the  touch. 

"Yes,  it  is  from  Nora,  and  it  incloses  one 
of  your  own.  There  it  is." 

He  threw  down  before  the  ready  letter- 
writer  a  composition  which  had  cost  her  much 
labor,  the  thought  of  many  days,  upon  which 
she  had  based  unnumbered  hopes  and  built  air- 
castles  galore,  none  of  which,  to  do  the  poor 
lady  justice,  was  intended  directly  for  her  own 
habitation. 

She  took  the  letter  and  spread  it  out  care 
fully  before  her;  these  epistolary  children  of 
hers  were  tenderly  dear  to  Miss  Madigan.  Her 
eye  caught  a  phrase  here  and  there  that  ap 
peared  to  be  singularly  felicitous.  This  one, 
for  instance: 

13 


232  THE  MADIGANS 

Poor  Francis,  of  course,  knows  nothing  about  this 
letter.  I  am  writing  to  you,  my  dear  cousin,  relying 
as  much  upon  your  discretion  as  upon  your  gen 
erosity. 

Or  this  one: 

And  Cecilia— she  is  really  talented,  though  a 
commonplace  creature  like  myself  can  hardly  give 
you  an  idea  in  just  what  direction. 

Or  this  one: 

As  to  Irene,  apart  from  her  voice,  which  is  really 
exceptional,  she  is  Francis  over  again— Francis  as 
he  was,  a  high-spirited,  reckless,  devil-may-care  fel 
low,  winning  and  tyrannical,  as  we  all  remember 
him  in  the  old  days  when  the  world  was  young. 

Or  even  this: 

I  am  afraid  Kate  will  have  to  teach  school,  young 
as  she  is.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  dread  the  long  years 
of  drudgery  I  see  before  this  slender,  spirited  child 
—she  is  little  more  than  that.  Think,  Miles,  of  these 
motherless  children  growing  up  in  this  wretched  hole 
without  the  smallest  advantage,  and,  if  you  can,  help 
them ;  or  get  some  one  else  to.  Could  n  't  you  take 
Kate  into  your  own  family  ?  I  'm  sure  she  'd  marry 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     233 

well,  and  Nora  wouldn't  be  troubled  with  her  long. 
She  's  really  very  pretty.  Or  could  n  't  you  send 
me  a  little  something  to  spend  on  clothes  for  her? 
Or  could  n't  Nora  be  persuaded  to  send  her— 

"Well,"  thundered  Madigan,  standing  over 
her,  "it  must  be  pretty  familiar  to  you.  Sup 
pose  you  read  what  Nora  says." 

Miss  Madigan  put  her  own  letter  away  with 
a  sigh.  It  was  really  unaccountable  that  Miles 
could  have  resisted  it. 

"  Miles  passed  away  six  weeks  ago," 
she  read  aloud  in  an  awed  voice. 

"  He  had  been  ailing  all  spring.  This  letter,  which 
came  a  fortnight  since,  I  opened,  of  course,  and 
return  it  to  you  that  you  may  be  made  aware  (if  you 
are  not  already)  of  the  demands  Anne  makes  upon 
comparative  strangers. 

"  For  myself,  I  regret  very  much  that  your  af 
fairs  are  in  such  a  bad  state.  Anne  says  that  there 
are  six  of  your  children,  all  girls;  but  that  can't  be 
true— she  always  loved  to  exaggerate  miseries;  it 
must  be  that  her  writing  is  so  illegible  that—" 

Miss  Madigan 's  voice  rebelled.  She  could 
read  aloud  adverse  opinions  upon  her  com- 


234  THE  MADIGANS 

mon  sense,  her  judgment,  or  her  pride,  but  to 
impugn  her  penmanship  was  to  commit  the  un 
forgivable. 

"I  think  Nora  is  distinctly  insulting, "  she 
declared. 

"No!"  Madigan  laughed  wrathfully.  "Do 
you,  now?,  Why,  what  has  she  said?  Only  that 
you  're  a  beggar,  and  I  'm  a  coward  as  well 
as  a  beggar,  because  I  don't  dare  to  beg  in  my 
own  name." 

"Does  she  say  that?"  exclaimed  the  literal 
Miss  Madigan,  shocked.  "Where?"  Her  eyes 
sought  the  letter  again. 

1 '  <  Where ' !  Thousand  devils— '  where  ' ! " 
Madigan  tore  it  from  her  and  threw  it  to  the 
floor,  stamping  upon  it  in  a  frenzy. 

Sighing,  Miss  Madigan  leaned  her  head  on 
her  hand.  It  was  hard  enough  to  find  one's 
most  hopeful  appeal  wasted,  without  Francis 's 
flying  into  such  a  rage. 

A  silence  followed. 

"Look  here,  Anne,"— Madigan 's  voice  was 
manifestly  struggling  to  be  calm,— "you  must 
quit  this  infernal  letter-writing.  How  could 
you  write  to  Miles  Madigan  for  charity,  know 
ing  that  he  cheated  me  out  of  my  share  of  the 
Tomboy?  Half  the  mine  was  mine.  You 
know  that,  and  yet  you  hurt  my— ' '  ' 

"I  fail  to  see,"  responded  Miss  Madigan, 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     235 

with  dignity,  "why  I  should  not  write  to  my 
own  relatives;  why  I  should  not  try,  for  my 
nieces'  sake,  to  knit  close  again  the  raveled 
ties  which  your  eccentricities  have—  " 

' '  In  order  to  get  a  box  of  old  duds  sent  clear 
from  Ireland!" 

"Has  Nora  sent  a  box!"  asked  Miss  Madi 
gan,  eager  as  a  child.  "You  see,  my  letter  did 
touch  her,  in  spite  of  herself.  And  they  won't 
be  old  duds.  They  '11  be  handsome  garments, 
Francis,  just  the  thing  for  the  girls'  winter 
wardrobe.  Now  that  Nora  's  in  mourning—" 

With  a  crash  that  sent  Miss  Madigan's  sen 
sitive-plant  rolling  from  its  stand  to  the  floor, 
Madigan  banged  the  door  behind  him  as  he 
fled. 

Miss  Madigan  flew  to  the  rescue,  and  she 
had  begun  to  scoop  up  the  scattered  earth  when 
her  eye  lighted  upon  a  line  at  the  end  of  Nora's 
letter : 

As  you  know,  Miles  had  only  a  life-interest  in  the 
estate.  At  his  death  everything  went  to  Miles  Mor 
gan.  Perhaps  Anne  would  do  well  to  apply  to  him. 
The  little  matter  of  her  never  having  seen  him  would 
not,  of  course,  stand  in  her  way. 


t  <. 


Of   course   not.     Why   should   it?"   Miss 
Madigan  asked  herself. 


236  THE  MADIGANS 

She  knelt  down  upon  the  floor  in  the  midst 
of  the  debris  and  took  from  her  pocket  the  let 
ter  that  Miles  Madigan  had  never  read.  With 
the  slightest  change,  the  recopying  of  the  first 
page  or  so,  why  could  not— 

Miss  Madigan  sat  down  at  her  desk.  In  a 
moment  the  steady,  slow,  studied  pace  of  her 
pen  was  all  that  was  heard  in  the  disordered 
room,  where  the  sensitive-plant  lay  half  up 
rooted  on  the  floor. 

The  Madigans  were  up  and  out.  All  A  Street 
was  alive  with  tales  of  them.  In  a  cloud  of 
dust  due  to  their  sweeping  trains,  they  had 
swooped  down  like  the  gay  Hieland  folk  they 
were,  and  captured  the  admiration  and  imi 
tation  of  the  slower,  prosaic  Lowlander. 

They  had  not  intended  to  go  so  far,  accou 
tred  as  they  were;  but  the  attention  they  at 
tracted  first  challenged,  then  seduced  the  vain 
things  farther  and  farther,  till  they  threw 
caution  to  the  winds  (and  a  boisterous  Washoe 
zephyr  was  abroad)  and  sallied  shamelessly 
forth.  In  their  immediate  train  they  carried 
Jack  Cody,  clothed  and  in  his  right  sex,  and 
Bombey  Forrest,  beating  her  drum.  Crosby 
Pemberton  slunk  unrecognized  in  the  rear. 

In  the  van  was  Sissy  victrix.     She  had  cut 


A  BEADY  LETTER-WRITER     239 

her  adorer  dead,  dead,  dead,  and  she  now  felt 
that  resultant  reckless  uplift  of  spirits  which 
is  the  feminine  corollary  to  demonstration  of 
power  (preferably  unjust  and  tyrannical)  over 
the  other  sex. 

"Let  's  try  to  see  the  walking-match, "  she 
suggested  to  Split. 

"How  can  we,  with  all  that  tagging  after 
us!" 

With  a  sweeping  gesture  to  the  rear,  Split 
indicated  the  trained  twins  and  Frances  hold 
ing  up  her  torn  petticoat.  Frank  was  bruised 
but  beaming;  in  fact,  she  had  never  felt  so 
much  a  Madigan,  for  she  had  never  before 
been  out  on  a  raid. 

* '  Let  'em  tag, ' '  cried  Sissy,  gaily ;  her  blood 
was  up,  and  she  knew  no  obstacles. 

Down  a  clay-bank,  into  a  vacant  lot  strewn 
with  tin  cans,  slid  the  Madigans.  Their  trains 
hampered  them,  and,  once  started,  only  speed 
could  save  them.  But  they  were  not  Com- 
stockers  and  Madigans  for  nothing.  Jack 
Cody,  who  had  arrived  first  on  the  field, 
caught  each  whirling,  dwarf-like  figure  as  it 
came  flying  down,  holding  it  a  moment  to 
steady  it  before  he  put  it  aside  in  order  to 
receive  the  next  female  projectile. 

Sissy  was  the  last,  and  Cody,  by  way  of 


240  THE  MADIGANS 

flourish  to  mark  the  conclusion  of  his  labors, 
lifted  Split's  little  sister,  train  and  all,  as  he 
caught  her,  with  a  whoop  of  satisfaction. 

His  whoop  was  cut  short  abruptly,  and  he  set 
her  down,  his  ears  tingling.  For  Sissy,  out 
raged  in  her  sense  of  dignity  as  well  as  in 
the  offish  prudery  that  characterized  her,  de 
clined  to  accept  patronage  as  anybody's  little 
sister,  and  boxed  his  ears  as  well  as  she  could 
in  the  short  time  given  to  her. 

Cody  looked  at  her.  It  was  really  the  first 
time  he  had  regarded  her  as  an  unrelated  in 
dividual.  "Ye  know  what  a  boy  does  when 
a  girl  strikes  him,"  he  threatened,  a  laughing 
glitter  in  his  bold  black  eye  that  made  Sissy's 
heart  jump. 

But  she  held  herself  very  primly,  and  the 
masking  puritan  in  her  voice  quelled  him. 
"If  he  's  a  coward— yes,"  she  responded 
haughtily,  hurrying  on. 

The  boy  looked  after  her  as  he  joined  Split. 
"She  's  funny— your  sister,"  he  said  lamely. 

"Who— Sissy?  Oh,  she  's  always  cranky," 
said  Irene,  with  Madigan  candor  when  a  rela 
tive  was  criticized. 

They  hurried  on.  The  barn-like  opera-house 
is  built  uphill,  like  all  buildings  on  Virginia 
City's  cross-streets,  and  it  seems  to  burrow 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     241 

into  as  well  as  climb  the  hill.  In  the  rear,  on 
the  side  where  its  boards  were  unpainted  and 
unplaned,  certain  knots  had  been  converted 
into  knot-holes  by  the  initiated. 

Sissy  was  already  on  her  knees,  her  eye 
glued  to  one  of  these  apertures.  All  she  could 
see  was  a  short  curve  of  empty  seats,  a  man's 
shoulder  and  another's  hat,  a  long  space,  and 
then  the  passing  of  a  neat,  long  pair  of  wo 
men's  gaiters  unhidden  by  skirts,  and  soon 
after  the  nervous  following  of  a  smaller  pair 
of  women's  ties. 

4 'Why,"  she  said,  with  a  deep  blush,  fixing 
one  eye  upon  the  company,  while  the  other 
blinked  from  the  strain  put  upon  it,  "they  're 
women!  It  's  a  women's  walking-match." 

"Sure,"  said  Cody,  without  withdrawing 
his  attention  for  a  moment  from  the  view  in 
side.  "The  big,  long  feet  belong  to  the  one 
they  call  La  Tourtillotte.  She  's  French.  The 
German  one  's  Von  Hagen." 

"I  think  it  's  a  shame,"  gasped  Sissy. 
"Let 's  go  home,  Split." 

Split,  at  her  own  particular  knot-hole,  af 
fected  not  to  hear.  But  Crosby  Pemberton, 
perched  in  the  elbow  of  some  long  scantlings 
bracing  the  building,  took  heart  at  Sissy's 
words. 


242  THE  MADIGANS 

"  It  is  n't  respectable,  Sissy,"  he  called  to 
her.  "  No  ladies  go.  Your  aunt  would  n't 
like  it." 

This  was  fatal.  At  his  voice  Sissy  hardened, 
and  with  a  gulp  of  disgust  she  resolutely 
turned  her  attention  to  her  knot-hole.  In  fact, 
as  Crosby  reiterated  his  advice,  she  felt  called 
upon  more  spectacularly  to  ignore  it,  and  see 
ing  a  more  commanding  and  spacious  knot 
hole  farther  up,  she  mounted  upon  a  big  dry- 
goods  box,  and  from  there  seated  herself  in  a 
lone  poplar,  the  apple  of  the  proprietor's  eye. 

This  was  better,  and  in  a  sense  it  was  also 
worse;  for  Sissy  could  plainly  see  La  Tour- 
tillotte,  a  gaunt,  businesslike  creature  in  short 
rainy-day  skirt  and  sweater,  her  long,  thin 
arms  going  like  pump-handles,  her  dark,  tense 
face  set  upon  a  goal  which  seemed  ever  to  flee 
before  her  as  her  weary  feet  carried  her  slowly 
and  still  more  slowly  around  the  circular  track. 

Despite  her  shocked  sense  of  propriety,— 
and  the  lawless  young  Madigans  had  very 
strict  ideas  as  to  the  conventions  for  adults,— 
the  ardor  of  the  struggle,  the  uncertainty  of 
the  issue,  seized  upon  Sissy.  She  heard  a  swift 
call  from  Irene,  some  distance  below,  and  was 
vaguely  aware  that  the  company,  skirted  and 
otherwise,  was  beating  a  retreat.  But  the 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     243 

smaller  of  the  two  contestants,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  knot-hole,  had  just  come  within  the 
field  of  Sissy's  rude  lens.  It  was  pitiable  to 
see  the  haggard  look  on  the  German  woman's 
plump  face,  the  childish  breakdown  imminent 
behind  the  woman's  staring  eyes  that  met  the 
bored  glance  of  the  male  spectators  doggedly, 
though  her  stout  little  body  was  still  being- 
carried  resolutely,  sluggishly,  painfully  along. 

Sissy's  hands  flew  to  her  breast.  Some 
thing  hurt  her  there,  cried  out  to  her,  threat 
ened  her.  She  was  furious  with  rage  and 
choked  with  sympathetic  sobs.  She  wanted  to 
hurt  somebody,  and  Jack  Cody's  insistent 
whistle,  which  kept  sounding  the  retreat,  so 
irritated  and  confused  her  that  she  fancied  it 
was  he  that  she  would  have  liked  to  beat,  as  a 
representative  of  his  cruel  sex.  But  when  she 
looked  down,  at  last  awake  to  the  world  on 
this  side  of  the  knot-hole,  she  saw  Crosby  Pern- 
berton  on  the  box  at  her  feet,  and  knew  who  it 
was  that  she  longed  to  punish  for  his  own  sins 
and  every  other  man's. 

" Quick— quick,  Sissy!  He  's  coming!"  he 
cried,  tugging  at  her  skirt. 

6 1  Who  ?  Go  'way ! ' '  Sissy  stamped  viciously, 
as  she  stood  clinging  to  a  limb;  yet  in  that 
very  instant  she  had  seen  that  all  the  Madi- 


244  THE  MADIGANS 

gans  and  their  train  had  fled,  save  this  poor 
servitor  at  her  feet. 

"Jan  Lally— oh,  hurry!" 

Around  the  corner  of  the  opera-house  came 
a  short-legged,  bald  little  German,  so  stout 
and  so  loosely  put  together  that,  as  he  ran,  his 
jelly-like  flesh  shook  as  though  it  was  about 
to  break  the  loose  bag  of  skin  that  held  it.  It 
was  Lally 's  opera-house,  and  Lally  was  come 
to  catch  trespassers  in  the  act  of  seeing  with 
out  paying. 

Sissy's  heart  jumped  to  her  throat.  In  the 
course  of  their  maraudings,  the  Madigans  were 
not  unaccustomed  to  a  stern-chase  and  a  lively 
one,  yet  now  it  seemed  to  her  that  strategy  was 
the  watchword.  Perched  high  up  in  the  tree, 
hidden  by  its  foliage,  who  would  notice  her— 
if  only  Crosby  would  go  away! 

But  Crosby  would  not  budge.  He  begged, 
he  implored,  he  became  confused  in  trying  to 
explain  to  her  her  danger,  and  at  last  burst 
into  bitter  tears  as  he  felt  Lally 's  fat,  moist 
hand  upon  his  collar,  and  saw  a  hereafter  peo 
pled  with  wrathful  motherly  faces  in  various 
stages  of  disgust  and  despair. 

"  You  come  vid  me.  I  gif  you  to  Kiddle. 
He  lock  you  oop,  you  bat  boy!" 

A    suppressed   giggle    of   pleasure,    at   the 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER      245 

thought  of  neat  little  Crosby  in  the  hands  of  the 
constable,  shook  Sissy,  perched  snugly  like  a 
malicious  little  bird  in  the  tree.  It  served  him 
right,  she  said  to  herself  gleefully,  ascribing 
the  basest  motives  to  Crosby,  as  one  loves  to 
do  when  one  's  friends  are  not  in  good  standing 
with  one's  self.  He  had  had  no  business  to 
hang  around  and  point  the  way  to  her  hiding- 
place  ! 

' '  Oh,  I  say,  Jan,  let  me  off ! ' '  begged  Crosby, 
white  with  terror  of  the  jail— and  his  lady 
mother.  "I  '11  never  peek  again,  sure  I 
won't!" 

1  i  Nu !    You  come  vid  me.    And  you,  too ! ' ' 

Sissy  looked  down.  Was  it  possible  there 
was  another  laggard  whom  she  had  not  seen? 

"I  say— you,  too!"  bellowed  Lally.  "Vill 
you  come  now!" 

In  the  very  certainty  of  security  a  sudden 
panic  fell  upon  Sissy.  If  she  only  dared  to 
move,  to  reassure  herself!  Of  course  it 
could  n't  mean  herself— oh! 

She  felt  a  sudden  tug  that  almost  dislodged 
her.  "You  t'ink  I  don't  see— huh!"  shouted 
the  perspiring  Teuton  below.  "What  for  you 
leave  dis  trail  hang  down  den— hey!"  And  he 
tugged  again. 

With    a    sickly    remnant    of    dignity    Sissy 


246  THE  MADIGANS 

stepped  down  and  out.  She  had  forgotten 
her  train— the  train  ihat  had  been  at  once  her 
pride  and  her  undoing. 

"We— I  was  playing  lady,"  she  explained, 
trembling. 

"Oop  a  tree— huh!  Peeking  t 'rough  knot 
holes—yes?  A  fine  lady!  I  fix  you." 

A  glow  of  defiance  came  to  Sissy's  cheeks. 
"I  don't  care,"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot 
as  she  stood  enthroned  on  the  dry-goods  box, 
her  train  about  her.  "It  's  a  nasty,  cruel  show, 
anyway,  and  you  could  n  't  hire  me  to  come  and 
see  it.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Mr.  Lally! 
How  'd  you  like  it  if  your  wife  was  stagger 
ing  along  in  there  without  sleeping  or  eating 
for  six  days?" 

Mr.  Jan  Lally 's  purple  face  looked  as  though 
it  had  been  slapped.  What  had  Mrs.  Lally,  With 
all  her  babies  and  busy  housekeeping,  to  do 
with  business!  He  was  so  astonished  and  per 
plexed  by  the  sudden  onslaught  that  the  wrig 
gling  Crosby  managed  to  slip  out  of  his  grasp, 
and  got  to  a  safe  distance  before  Lally  realized 
it. 

"Nu!"  he  grunted.  "I  cou'  n't  hire  you— 
no?  Veil,  you  come  mitout  hire.  I  show  you." 

Sissy  felt  herself  lifted  down  without  cere 
mony  and  dragged  off.  Her  round  face  was 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     247 

white,  her  heart  was  beating  like  the  stamps 
at  the  Chollar  pan-mill.  Yet  her  train  trailed 
after  her  still  in  mock  dignity.  So  did  Crosby, 
at  a  respectful  distance,  fearing  to  follow,  yet, 
though  helpless,  incapable  of  desertion.  But 
at  the  entrance  to  the  opera-house  the  door 
was  shut  in  his  face. 

Sissy  and  her  captor  entered.  The  stage 
had  been  built  out  over  the  pit,  and  in  the  very 
first  row  of  the  dress-circle,  the  rim  of  which 
was  the  boundary  of  the  contestants'  suffering 
feet,  Jan  Lally  sat  down,  with  Sissy  at  his  side. 

Ah,  to  sit  in  the  front  row  of  the  dress-cir 
cle!  To  feel  the  opulence  of  one's  enviable 
position,  as  well  as  the  artistic  delight  of  being 
properly  placed  where  one  could  miss  nothing, 
while  the  brass  band  outside  the  opera-house 
played  its  third  and  last  quick,  jubilant  invita 
tion  to  pleasure— so  tantalizing  to  the  outsider, 
so  gratifying  to  the  fortunate  one  within! 

Many  and  many  a  time  had  Sissy  Madigan 
waited,  during  first  and  second  bands,  for 
some  miracle  to  set  her  where  she  now  sat! 
Many  a  time  had  the  third  selection  been 
played,  the  players  with  their  instruments  filed 
into  Paradise,  and  the  poor  Madigan  peri  re 
mained  shut  outside. 

But  now  Cecilia  hung  her  head,  shamed  by 


248  THE  MADIGANS 

being  caught;  shamed  by  punishment;  shamed 
trebly  by  the  fact  that,  apart  from  those  poor 
sexless,  half-maddened  machines  tottering  fe 
verishly  around  and  forever  around,  she,  Sissy 
Madigan,  the  proud,  the-  pure,  the  proper,  was 
the  one  thing  womanly  in  the  house ! 

It  was  not  a  full  house  by  any  means,  and 
only  the  men  immediately  next  to  her  seemed 
aware  of  her  presence.  Yet,  with  a  conscious 
ness  that  seared  her  soul  and  humbled  the 
pride  of  the  childish  prude  as  with  a  stain  upon 
her  purity,  Sissy  felt  the  compounded,  compos 
ite  gaze  of  man  upon  woman  out  of  place.  It 
withered,  it  scorched,  it  stung  her. 

But  finally  Von  Hagen,  the  little  German 
woman,  going  the  round  of  her  maddening 
treadmill,  reached  the  spot  where  Sissy  sat. 
The  sight  of  a  child  there,  of  a  bare,  bowed, 
neat  little  head  in  the  midst  of  that  inclosure 
of  men's  cold  eyes,  seemed  to  be  the  last  touch 
needed  to  overthrow  her  tottering  reason.  She 
stopped,  swaying  from  the  unaccustomed  ces 
sation  of  motion,  and  held  out  her  arms,  smil 
ing  vacantly  and  babbling  baby-talk  in  Ger 
man  as  though  to  a  dearly  loved  little  Mddchen 
of  her  own. 

Swift  horror  piled  on  Sissy.  She  had  never 
looked  into  eyes  from  which  sense  had  fled, 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     249 

and  the  sight  stamped  itself  upon  her  brain 
with  terrible  vividness  as  food  for  future 
nightmares.  So  frightened  was  she  that  she 
was  not  aware  of  Jan  Lally's  relaxed  hold 
upon  her  arm,  which  ached  from  the  tight  grip 
he  had  had  upon  it.  But  when  the  overtaxed 
body  of  the  German  woman  fell  in  a  heap  al 
most  at  her  feet,  fright  became  action  in  Sissy. 
She  flew  past  old  Jan  (his  one  concern  now 
being  for  his  walking-match),  past  the  knees 
of  the  staring  men,  up  the  interminable  center 
aisle,  her  poor  train  switching  behind  her  as 
she  stumbled,  yet  ran  on,  so  absorbed  by  her 
suffering  that  she  was  unaware  of  the  attention 
her  queer  little  figure  attracted,  till  she  was  out 
at  last  in  the  free  air. 

"Well,  punish  me!"  she  said,  when  she  found 
Aunt  Anne  waiting  for  her  at  the  head  of  the 
long  steps  fifteen  minutes  later. 

It  was  a  good  deal  for  a  Madigan— the 
nearest  they  ever  got  to  mea  culpa:  they  were 
not  Christians. 

Sissy 's  arrival  was  hailed  by  a  populous  night- 
gowned  world,  sent,  like  herself,  supperless 
for  its  sins  to  the  purgatory  of  early  bedtime. 
Split  came  stealing  in  from  the  other  room, 

14 


250  THE  MADIGANS 

bringing  Frank  along  that  she  might  not  cry 
and  betray  her  elder  sister's  movements— a 
successful  sort  of  blackmail  the  youngest 
Madigan  often  practised.  And  later,  Kate, 
looking  most  conventional  and  full-dressed  in 
this  nightgowned  society,  brought  succor  for 
the  starving.  They  munched  chocolate  and 
camped  comfortably,  three  on  each  bed,  while 
Sissy  told  her  adventures.  When  she  came  to 
the  description  of  Von  Hagen's  fall,  though 
still  shuddering  at  the  memory,  she  acted  the 
incident  so  dramatically  that  Frances  set  up 
a  howl,  which  was,  however,  most  fortunately 
drowned  by  the  ringing  of  the  front-door  bell. 

Split  started  to  answer  it,  but  her  night- 
gowned  state  gave  her  pause.  "Perhaps  fa 
ther  '11  go,"  she  suggested. 

Kate  shook  her  head.  "He  did  n't  come  to 
dinner ;  he  's  been  shut  up  in  his  room  all  day. ' ' 

"What  's  the  matter?"  asked  Sissy.  An 
old  look,  that  washed  all  the  self-satisfaction 
from  her  round  face,  came  over  it  now. 

Kate  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Something 
he  and  Aunt  Anne  talked  about  to-day,"  she 
answered,  as  she  went  out  into  the  hall  with 
the  air  of  a  martyr. 

Sissy  looked  owlishly  after  her.  Though 
Francis  Madigan  rarely  ate  anything  that  was 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     251 

prepared  for  the  family  dinner,  she  could  re 
member  the  rare  times  when  he  had  absented 
himself  from  it,  and  feel  again  the  usually 
ignored  undercurrent  of  the  realities  upon 
which  their  young  lives  flowed  full, and  free. 

But  things  happened  too  quickly  at  the  Madi- 
gans',  and  to  be  preoccupied  to  the  exclusion 
of  one's  sisters  was  one  of  the  forms  of  af 
fectation  not  to  be  tolerated.  Split  threw 
a  pillow  at  her  head,  and  the  fight  was  in  prog 
ress  when  Kate  called  for  volunteers  to  bring 
in  a  big  box  from  Ireland,  left  by  a  drayman 
who  was  fiercely  resentful  of  the  extraordinary 
approach  to  the  Madigan  house. 

Like  a  lot  of  white-robed  Lilliputians,  they 
tugged  and  hauled  till  they  got  it  into  the  par 
lor.  But  when  they  had  lighted  the  tall,  old- 
fashioned  lamp  that  they  called  "the  light 
house  "  they  were  disgusted  to  find  that  the 
box  was  addressed  to  "Miss  Madigan,  Vir 
ginia  City,  Nevada,  California,  U.  S.  A." 

"Some  people  don't  know  anything  about 
geography,"  sniffed  Sissy. 

"Well,-"  Kate  had  been  thinking,-"!  'm 
Miss  Madigan." 

"Whoop— hooray!"  The  shout  came  from 
the  twins.  They  were  off  into  the  kitchen  for 
Wong's  hatchet,  and  when  they  pressed  it 


252  THE  MADIGANS 

obligingly  into  Kate's  hand,  that  young  lady 
saw  no  way  but  to  make  use  of  it. 

"  Girls— it  7s  clothes !"  she  exclaimed,  her 
starved  femininity  reveling  in  the  quantity  of 
material  before  her. 

" Boys'  clothes, "  said  Split,  holding  up  a 
full-kneed  pair  of  knickerbockers  and  a  belted 
jacket.  "Well!77  With  a  philosophical  grin, 
she  began  to  put  them  on. 

"And  ladies7  clothes!77  cried  Sissy,  drag 
ging  forth  a  long  black  cape.  "  '  Here  would 
I  rest, 7  ' 7  she  chanted,  draping  it  about  her  and 
lugubriously  mimicking  Professor  Trask  as 
the  Recluse  in  "The  Cantata  of  the  Flowers.77 

"Let  7s  do  it!  Let  7s  sing  'The  Flowers,7  77 
cried  Irene,  shaking  herself  into  some  Irish 
boy7s  jacket. 

' i  Not  much ! 7  7  Sissy  planted  herself  against 
the  door,  as  though  physical  compulsion  had 
been  threatened. 

"Oh,  yes,  Sissy,77  begged  Fom.  "Bep  and 
I  can  sing  the  Heliotrope  and  Mignonette. 
Frank  can  be  a  Poppy,  and  we  can  double  up 
and-77 

"I  711  be  the  Rose,77  put  in  Kate,  quickly. 
She  had  a  much-feathered  hat  on  her  head  and 
a  crocheted  lace  shawl  about  her  shoulders. 

"I'll  be  the  Rose.77     Split,  corrupted  by 


Here  would  I  rest,'  she  chanted7' 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     255 

her  body's  boyish  environment,  stretched  her 
legs  apart  defiantly.  "You  can't  sing  it;  you 
know  you  can't,  Kate.  You  never  could  get 
up  to  G.  If  I  'm  not  the  Rose—" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Kate,  drawing  on  a  pair 
of  soiled,  long  light  gloves  she  had  pulled  out 
of  the  box,  "I  '11  be  the  Lily,  then.  Come  on, 
Sis." 

"I  won't,"  said  Sissy,  almost  weeping.  She 
knew  she  would.  i  i  I  won 't  be  the  Recluse !  I 
won't  be  the  Recluse  every  time,  just  because 
you  two  are  so  greedy  and—" 

"You  know,"  said  Kate,  smothering  a  gig 
gle,  but  not  very  successfully,  "no  one  can  do 
it  as  well  as  you." 

'  *  And  it  's  really  a  very  important  part,  and 
the  very  first  solo,"  chuckled  Irene.  "Else 
why  did  Professor  Trask  take  it  himself?" 

"  If  it  's  so  important, ' '  put  in  Sissy,  grasp 
ing  at  a  straw,  "you  'd  better  take  it  yourself. 
Why  must  I  always  take  a  man's  part!  And 
I  can't  sing,  anyway." 

"Why,  Sissy!"  Split's  tone  was  flattery 
incarnate,  but  the  irony  in  her  eye  made  her 
junior  dance. 

"You  know  I  can't,"  she  sniffled. 

"But  my  voice  and  Split's  go  so  well  to 
gether  in  the  Rose  and  Lily  duet,"  said  Kate, 


256  THE  MADIGANS 

putting  the  book  of  the  cantata  upon  the  piano- 
rack  and  opening  it  persuasively. 

"You  promise  me  every  time,"  wailed  the 
downtrodden  Recluse,  reluctantly  moving  for^ 
ward,  "that  I  won't  have  to  be  it  the  next 
time." 

"Well,  you  won't  next  time,"  said  Kate,  gen 
erously.  "Will  she,  Split?" 

"Well,  I  won't  sing  it  this  time,"  declared 
Sissy,  seating  herself  at  the  piano,  yet  making 
a  last  stand  at  the  very  guns. 

But  Kate  and  Irene  burst  forth  in  the  open 
ing  chorus  with  all  the  verve  in  the  world.  The 
Madigans  never  scorned  expression  when  it 
was  understood  that  they  were  acting.  And  the 
twins,  still  pulling  stage  properties  out  of  the 
box,  and  even  Frances,  fantastically  decorated 
with  a  torn  Irish  lace  fichu  over  the  bifurcated, 
footed  white  garment  she  still  wore  o'  nights, 
joined  joyfully  in: 

"  'We  are  the  flowers, 
The  fair  young  flowers, 
That  come  at  the  voice  of  spring — ' 
DING-DONG!" 

It  was  a  familiar  old  Madigan  joke,  always 
greeted  with  a  shriek  of  laughter,  to  shout  out 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     257 

the  two  notes  of  the  accompaniment  that  punc 
tuated  the  musical  phrases.  Its  observance 
now  put  even  Sissy  in  good  humor,  so  that 
when  the  time  came  for  the  Recluse  to  make  his 
appearance,  she  left  the  piano,  and  stalking 
miserably  about  with  the  preliminary  cough 
with  which  the  unfortunate  Professor  Trask 
was  afflicted,  she  sang  her  doleful  recitative. 

The  Madigans  were  never  literalists.  They 
were  of  the  impressionistic  school,  which  re 
quires  of  the  audience,  as  well  as  of  the  artist, 
high  imaginative  powers.  And  here  the  au 
dience  of  one  moment  was  the  actor  of  the  next, 
whose  duty  it  was  not  to  mind  too  closely  the 
letter  that  killeth,  but  to  mimic  irreverently, 
to  exaggerate,  to  make  of  themselves  carica 
tures  of  the  mannerisms  of  others,  to  nickname, 
to  seize  upon  every  peculiarity  with  their 
quick,  observant,  cruel  young  eyes  and  paint 
it  in  flesh-and-blood  cartoons. 

Thus,  when  the  Rose,  that  "gentle  flower  in 
which  a  thorn  is  oft  concealed,"  sang  her  duet 
with  the  Nightingale  (Sissy  trilling  weakly  on 
the  piano,  while  Frank  fluted  her  fingers  af 
fectedly  as  she  had  seen  it  done  that  mem 
orable  night)  it  was  done  in  the  hollow,  throaty 
tones  of  the  elder  Miss  Blind-Staggers,  who 
had  created  the  role;  while  the  Lily  sang 


258  THE  MADIGANS 

through  her  nose,  which  she  wiped  every  now 
and  then  in  a  manner  unmistakably  that  of 
Henrietta  Blind-Staggers. 

"The  Cantata  of  the  Flowers"  was  never 
brought  to  a  glorious  completion  by  the  Madi- 
gans,  even  though  they  skipped  uninteresting 
and  difficult  parts,  and,  like  the  early  Eliza 
bethans,  permitted  no  intermission  between 
acts.  It  was  very  often  laughed  to  death.  At 
times  it  became  a  saturnalia  of  extravagant 
action,  and  it  frequently  ended  in  a  free  fight, 
when  the  Rose  and  the  Lily  hinted  too  openly 
at  the  Kecluse's  incurable  tendency  to  sing  off 
key.  But  that  night  it  might  have  dragged  its 
saccharine  length  of  melody  to  the  coronation 
of  the  Rose  and  a  quick  curtain  if  Miss  Madi- 
gan  had  not  walked  right  into  the  thick  of  it. 

"Golly!"  gasped  Sissy,  while  Irene  dodged 
behind  Kate,  who  quickly  turned  down  the 
lamp,  and  a  hush  fell  upon  the  rest. 

But  Miss  Madigan  had  been  writing,  or 
rather  rewriting,  letters.  She  had  completely 
forgotten  the  heinous  offense  of  the  after 
noon. 

"Will  you  mail  a  letter  for  me,  Sissy,  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning?"  she  asked,  still 
preoccupied.  "Why  are  you  in  the  dark!" 

're  just  going  to  bed, ' '  remarked  Sissy, 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER      259 

with  soothing  demureness,  taking  the  envelop 
from  her  aunt's  hand  and  falling  in  with  her 
mood,  as  one  does  with  the  mentally  afflicted. 

When  Miss  Madigan,  fatigued  with  the  la 
bor  of  composition,  had  gone  back  to  her  room, 
Kate  turned  up  the  light  again.  i '  Same  thing, 
I  s'pose?"  she  asked.  "Circumstances-letter 
— huh?" 

"I  s'pose  so.  'T  ain't  sealed,"  said  Sissy, 
with  resignation.  "But  she  always  forgets  to 
seal  'em."  Then,  suddenly  inspired,  she 
caught  up  Professor  Trask's  pencil  lying  on 
the  piano,  and  on  the  vacant  half -page  at  the 
end  of  Miss  Madigan 's  letter  she  wrote  in  her 
best  school-girl  hand: 

You— whoever  you  are— need  n't  bother  to  answer 
this.  None  of  us  Madigans  wants  your  help  or  anny- 
body  else's.  It  't  only  that  Aunt  Anne  's  got  the 
scribbles,  and  we  '11  thank  you  to  mind  your  own 
buisness. 

Sissy  Madigan. 

She  read  her  composition  to  the  startled 
but,  on  the  whole,  approving  Madigans,  sealed 
the  letter,  and  was  ready  for  bed. 

They  were  all  scampering  through  the  long 
hall  playing  leap-frog— a  specialty  of  Split's 


260  THE  MADIGANS 

which  her  present  costume  facilitated— when 
Francis  Madigan,  candle  in  hand,  came  out  of 
his  room  on  his  usual  tour  of  nightly  inspec 
tion.  His  short-sighted  eyes  fell  upon  Irene, 
a  pretty,  lithe,  wavy-haired  boy,  before  she  and 
the  twins  bolted. 

"What  boy  have  you  got  there?"  he  de 
manded.  "Send  him  home." 

Kate  took  Frances  up  in  her  arms  and  cov 
ered  the  retreat;  she  knew  how  much  the  bet 
ter  part  of  valor  was  discretion. 

Sissy  remained  standing,  looking  up  at  him. 
When  she  was  alone  with  her  father  she  was 
conscious  of  her  poor  little  barren  favorite- 
ship,  though  she  dared  not  impose  upon  it.  In 
the  candle-light  his  harsh,  rugged  features 
stood  out  marked  with  lines  of  suffering. 

"It  's  all  right,  father,"  she  said,  with  a 
quick  choice  of  the  lesser  irritation  for  him. 
"He  '11  go— right  away.  Good  night." 

"Good  night,  child." 

But  she  walked  a  step  or  two  with  him,  slip 
ping  her  hand  at  last  into  his,  and  pressing  it 
tenderly. 

"Is— anything  the  matter,  father?"  she 
whispered. 

He  threw  back  his  head  as  though  some  one 
had  struck  him.  It  was  not  difficult  to  guess 


''  She  walked  a  step  or  two  with  him" 


A  READY  LETTER-WRITER     263 

from  whom  the  Madigans  had  inherited  their 
fanatical  desire  to  conceal  emotion. 

Sissy  was  terrified  at  what  she  had  done,  yet 
the  vague  trouble  lay  quivering  before  her, 
though  still  unnamed,  in  his  working  face. 

"  Father— I  'm  sorry, "  she  sobbed. 

He  pushed  her  from  him,  but  gently,  and 
she  crept  into  her  bed  and  pulled  the  clothes 
over  her  head,  that  the  twins  might  not  hear 
her  strangled  sobbing. 


"THE  MAETYRDOM  OF  MAN" 


"THE  MARTYRDOM   OF  MAN" 

WITH  a  shrill  whistle  of  recognition,  Jack 
Cody  ran  down  the  hill  to  meet  Split 
toiling  up. 

The  air  is  like  ethereal  champagne  in  Vir 
ginia  City,  and  on  a  late  summer's  evening, 
after  the  sun's  honeyed  freshness  has  been 
strained  through  miles  of  it,  it  has  a  quality 
that  makes  playing  outdoors  intoxicating. 

Split,  though,  had  not  been  playing.  There 
was  business  on  hand  and  she  had  been  down 
town  to  buy  eggs  for  the  picnic,  with  the  usual 
result.  She  had  never  yet  succeeded  in  bring 
ing  home  an  unbroken  dozen,  nor  did  she  ever 
hope  to;  but  she  was  really  out  of  temper  at 
the  extraordinary  dampness  of  the  paper  bag, 
to  which  her  two  hands  adhered  stickily.  She 
walked  slowly  upward,  holding  the  eggs  far  in 
front  of  her  like  a  votive  offering  to  the  culi 
nary  gods,  unconscious  of  the  betraying  yel 
low  streaks  that  beaded  her  blue  gingham 
apron. 

267 


268  THE  MADIGANS 

"Where  you  been,  Split?"  asked  Cody,  by 
way  of  an  easy  opening. 

"Down  to  the  grocery.  Mrs.  Pemberton's 
not  laying  decently  these  days." 

"Mrs.  Pemberton!" 

"Sissy's  gray  hen,  you  know.  Sissy  called 
her  that  'cause  she  's  so  stuck-up  and  thinks 
she  's  better  than  any  other  hen  in  the  yard. 
Besides,  she  's  got  only  one  chicken,  and  bosses 
him  for  all  the  world  like  Crosby. ' ' 

Cody  nodded.  "What  time  you  going  to 
start  in  the  morning?  Six?" 

"Uh-huh."  Split  dared  not  lift  her  eyes 
from  the  sticky  trail  that  exuded  from  her. 

"Sure?"  the  boy  demanded. 

"Sure— if  only  father  don't  keep  us  so  long 
to-night  that  we  can 't  get  ready.  We  've  got  to 
be  martyred  to-night, ' '  she  added  gloomily. 

Cody  looked  his  resentment  and  sympathy. 
Delicacy  and  the  fear  of  betraying  some  social 
disability  on  his  own  part  of  which  he  was  un 
aware—some  neglect  of  training  which  might 
be  considered  essential  in  well-regulated  fami 
lies—forbade  his  inquiring  precisely  what  the 
process  was.  To  him  '  *  martyring ' '  meant  some 
queer  rite  whose  main  and  malicious  purpose 
it  was  to  keep  Split  indoors  of  an  evening 
when  the  high  mountain  twilight  was  going  to 


"THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN"      269 

be  long,  long ;  and  when  the  moon  that  followed 
it  would  be  so  brilliant  that  one  might  read  by 
its  light— if  he  were  n't  too  wise,  and  too  fond 
of  hide-and-seek— out  in  the  silver-flooded 
streets  made  vocal  by  childish  cries. 

"But  it  can't  last  the  whole  evening!"  he 
asked  appealingly,  as  she  prepared  to  mount 
the  steps,  always  accompanied  by  the  silent 
yellow  witness  of  her  passing. 

She  shook  her  head  hopelessly,  sniffing  in  a 
manner  that  showed  plainly  how  little  reliance 
she  placed  upon  the  generosity  and  judgment 
of  adults.  And  Cody  walked  away,  haunted  by 
the  tormenting  vision  of  Split  flying  before 
him  through  the  moonlit  night:  the  only  girl 
in  town  who  had  any  originality  about  choos 
ing  hiding-places,  or  who  could  make  a  race 
worth  while. 

The  family  was  assembled  when  Split 
reached  the  library  and  sat  down,  rebelliously 
sullen,  beside  Sissy.  That  young  woman, 
though,  wore  an  expression  of  purified  pa 
tience,  a  submissive  willingness  to  kiss  the  rod, 
that  was  eminently  appropriate,  however  in 
furiating  to  the  junior  Madigans.  But  Sissy 
had  known  that  it  was  coming.  She  could  have 
foretold  the  martyrdom ;  all  the  signs  of  yester 
day  prophesied  it,  and  she  was  reconciled. 


15 


270  THE  MADIGANS 

It  followed  invariably  that  after  the  rare  oc 
casions  when  the  pitiful  curtain  of  his  egotism 
had  been  blown  aside  by  some  chance  breeze 
of  destiny,  and  Francis  Madigan  had  stood  for 
a  moment  face  to  face  with  himself  and  his 
shirked  responsibilities,  he  made  the  spasmodic 
effort  to  fulfil  his  paternal  obligations,  which 
the  Madigans  had  learned  to  call  their  "  mar 
tyring.  "  He  took  from  his  library  the  book 
which  had  been  most  to  him,  which  he  had  read 
all  his  life :  for  inspiration  when  he  had  been 
young  and  hopeful,  for  philosophy  now  that 
he  was  old  and  a  failure.  He  was  sincere  in 
offering  to  his  children  the  fruit  of  a  great  mind 
with  comments  by  one  that  was  sympathetic, 
able  if  not  deep,  and  genuinely  eager,  for  the 
moment,  to  share  its  enthusiasm. 

But  the  sight  of  all  this  helpless  though 
secretly  critical  womanhood  disposed  atten 
tively  about  him  invariably,  through  associa 
tion  of  ideas,  brought  to  his  mind  every  sim 
ilar  and  abortive  attempt  he  had  made  in  this 
direction.  When  he  opened  the  book  to  read 
aloud  to  them,  he  was  always  irritated,  with 
that  deep-seated  irascibility  which  has  its 
foundation  in  self-discontent,  however  exter 
nals  may  influence  or  add  to  it. 

Whatever  Francis  Madigan  might  have  been, 


' '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '       271 

he  was  never  intended  for  a  pedagogue.  His 
impatience  of  stupidity,  his  irritation  at  the 
slow,  stumbling  steps  of  immaturity,  not  to 
speak  of  his  lack  of  judgment  in  his  selection 
and  his  determination  to  persevere  in  reading 
aloud  from  the  book  of  his  choice,  if  he  had  to 
ram  undigested  wisdom  whole  into  the  mental 
stomachs  of  his  offspring— all  this  would  have 
deterred  a  less  obstinate  man.  But  Madigan, 
who  had  become  a  bully  through  weakness 
(forced  to  domineer  unsuccessfully  in  his  home 
by  the  conquering  softness  of  his  sister 's  dispo 
sition),  had  the  bully's  despairing  conscious 
ness  of  being  in  the  wrong  at  the  very  moment 
of  superficial  victory;  of  being  powerless  in 
the  very  act  of  imposing  himself  upon  his  poor 
little  women-folk ;  of  recognizing  the  fact  that, 
although  he  might  lead  them  to  the  fountain  of 
knowledge,  he  was  unable  to  make  them  drink ; 
and  yet  not  daring  to  hesitate  in  his  bullying, 
for  fear  that  he  might  do  nothing  at  all  if  he 
did  not  do  this. 

Now  that  his  conscience  was  quickened,  Mad 
igan  insisted  to  himself  that  the  culture  of  his 
daughters'  minds  must  be  attended  to.  So  he 
read  aloud  from  "The  Martyrdom  of  Man"; 
and  enjoyed  the  sound  of  his  voice — the  irre 
sistible  accents  of  the  cultured  Irishman— a 


272  THE  MADIGANS 

pleasure  which  the  world  shared  with  him; 
but  not  a  martyred  world  of  small  women, 
over  whose  heads  the  long-sounding,  musical 
periods  of  the  poet-historian  rolled,  dropping 
only  an  occasional  light  shower  of  intelligence 
upon  the  untilled  minds  below. 

"We  will  begin  where  we  left  off  the  last 
time, ' '  Madigan  said  harshly.  He  remembered 
how  long  it  had  been  since  "last  time,"  and 
how  much  his  audience  had  had  time  to  forget. 
i  i  Where  was  that !  Were  any  of  you  interested 
enough  to  remember  ?" 

Miss  Madigan  looked  up  from  her  work,  like 
an  amiable  but  very  silly  hen  who  pretends 
to  make  a  mental  effort,  yet,  unfortunately,  has 
nothing  to  make  that  effort  with.  Kate,  with 
the  consciousness  that  she  was  really  the  only 
one  of  Madigan 's  children  capable  of  following 
the  line  of  the  historian's  thought,  flushed 
guiltily.  Irene  sat  like  a  prisoner,  looking  out 
into  the  balmy  evening.  She  could  hear  cries 
of  '  '  Free  home !  Free  home ! ' '  from  down  yon 
der  in  the  paradise  of  the  streets,  in  Crosby 
Pemberton's  voice.  Even  Crosby,  whose  un 
natural  mother  was  the  only  lady  of  Split's 
acquaintance  who  was  prejudiced  against  play 
ing  in  the  streets— even  Crosby  was  out.  While 
she— 


'  <  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '      273 

"It  was  the  fall  of  Carthage,  was  n't  it, 
father?"  asked  Sissy,  sweetly. 

If  a  glance  from  Split  could  have  slain, 
Sissy  had  been  dead.  It  was  not  the  Madigan 
policy  to  encourage  Francis  Madigan  in  his 
belief  that  the  seeds  he  sought  to  sow  fell  on 
fertile  soil.  If  they  had  to  be  martyred  in  one 
sense,  they  declined  to  be  in  another.  Besides, 
they  knew  and  detested  Sissy's  hypocritical 
desire  to  ' '  show  off. ' ' 

"It  was,  indeed,  Cecilia,"  said  Madigan, 
with  a  pathetic  softening  of  his  whole  being. 
"  'T  is  a  fine,  stirring,  terrible  picture  the  his 
torian  gives  us  of  the  doomed  city.  Ahem !  .  .  . 
'  And  then,  as  if  the  birds  of  the  air  had  carried 
the  news,  it  became  known  all  over  northern 
Africa  that  Carthage  was  about  to  fall.  And 
then,  from  the  dark  and  dismal  corners  of  the 
land,  from  the  wasted  frontiers  of  the  desert, 
from  the  snowy  lairs  and  caverns  of  the  Atlas, 
there  came  creeping  and  crawling  to  the  coast 
the  most  abject  of  the  human  race— black, 
naked,  withered  beings,  their  bodies  covered 
with  red  paint,  their  hair  cut  in  strange  fash 
ions,  their  language  composed  of  muttering 
and  whistling  sounds.  By  day  they  prowled 
around  the  camp,  and  fought  with  the  dogs  for 
the  offal  and  the  bones.  If  they  found  a  skin, 


274  THE  MADIGANS 

they  roasted  it  on  ashes,  and  danced  around  it 
in  glee,  wriggling  their  bodies  and  uttering 
abominable  cries.  When  the  feast  was  over, 
they  cowered  together  on  their  hams,  and  fixed 
their  gloating  eyes  upon  the  city,  and  expanded 
their  blubber-lips  and  showed  their  white 
fangs.  At  last— '  " 

A  piercing  scream  came  from  Frances. 

"Thousand  devils!"  Madigan  burst  forth, 
enraged  at  the  interruption. 

It  was  only  that  Bep  and  Fom,  in  the  midst 
of  a  finger  conversation  carried  on  politely  with 
a  deaf-and-dumb  alphabet,  had  had  their  atten 
tion  attracted  by  the  ghastly  word-picture  made 
so  vivid  by  their  father's  voice.  So,  wearying 
of  the  innocuous  desuetude  of  things,  it  oc 
curred  to  them  to  present  for  Frank's  enter 
tainment  a  bodily  representation  of  what  the 
words  meant  to  their  minds.  Safe  in  the  ob 
scurity  of  the  table-cloth's  circular  shadow, 
down  on  the  floor  they  wriggled,  they  prowled, 
they  cowered  and  gloated  and  expanded  their 
blubber-lips  and  showed  their  fangs.  If  they 
did  not  utter  abominable  cries,  it  was  only 
because  that  particular  detail  was  not  needed 
to  send  the  smallest  Madigan  into  hysterics. 

"Leave  the  room!"  cried  Madigan.  "Leave 
the  room,  you  ox!"  looking  wrathfully,  but 
generally,  down  at  the  disturbance. 


1 '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '      275 

And  three  small  Madigans,  feeling  that  they 
had  paid  a  small  price  for  freedom,  crept  and 
crawled  to  the  door— the  most  abject  of  the 
Madigan  race  till  they  were  fairly  outside, 
when  they  became  the  most  jubilant. 

"  'At  last,'  '  went  on  Madigan,  a  lingering 
growl  of  resentment  in  his  voice,  "  'the  day 
came.  The  harbor  walls  were  carried  by  as 
sault  and  the  Roman  soldiers  passed  into—'  " 

"Father,"  interrupted  Sissy,  with  the  ex 
asperating  air  of  one  who  knows  how  soothing 
she  is  (like  many  a  talented  person,  she  was 
irretrievably  ruined  by  her  first  success  and 
she  felt  very  intelligent)— "father,  in  what 
part  of  Rome  was  Carthage?" 

Behind  her  father's  back  Split  mouthed  a 
threat  of  vengeance  and  shook  her  fist  at  the 
interested  Sissy  for  wilfully  prolonging  the 
session.  But  at  Madigan 's  snort  of  disgust, 
the  Indian  profile  of  Split,  below  its  bushy 
crown  of  red,  shone  out  malevolently.  She  did 
not  know  what  Sissy  had  done ;  she  knew  only 
that  she  had  done  something. 

Sissy  met  her  glance,  and  returned  it  with 
dignity.  "I  did  n't  mean  that,  father,  you 
know,"  she  said  priggishly.  "I  meant,  of 
course,  in  what  part  of  Carthage  was  Rome." 

"Oh,  you  did!"  Madigan 's  smile  was  not 
pleasant. 


276  THE  MADIGANS 

"Ye-es,77  said  Sissy,  uncertainly. 

"Well,"  said  Madigan,  explosively,  "Rome 
was  in  the  same  part  of  Carthage  as  Carthage 
was  of  Rome.77 

His  jaw  was  set  now,  and  his  glowing  dark 
eyes  beneath  their  white  shaggy  brows  as  he 
sought  his  place  in  the  book  were  not  encour 
aging.  But  the  enigmatic  character  of  his  re 
sponse  was  not  enough  for  Sissy,  dazed,  yet 
greedy  for  glory.  She  glanced  from  Split,  in 
whose  ear  Kate  was  whispering  something  that 
seemed  vastly  to  delight  her,  to  her  father,  who 
had  begun  to  read  again. 

1  i  I  don  7t  remember,  father,  please, 7  7  she  said 
as  he  paused  a  moment  to  clear  his  throat. 
"What  part  was  that?77 

A  sputtering  giggle  broke  from  Split.  It 
was  unlucky,  for  it  turned  Madigan  7s  wrath 
upon  her. 

"Outside!77  he  commanded,  pointing  to  the 
door.  i  i  Outside,  you  ox !  .  .  . 7 ' 

"  'Six  days  passed  thus,7  77  the  reading  be 
gan  again.  (In  almost  the  moment  the  door 
had  closed  behind  her,  Split  could  be  heard 
flying  down  the  outside  steps  two  at  a  time. 
That  he  was  sorely  tried,  Madigan  7s  voice 
showed  plainly,  and  his  shrunken  audience 
looked  apprehensively  at  one  another).  "  'Six 


6 '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '       277 

days  passed  thus  and  only  the  citadel  was  left. 
It  was  a  steep  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  town ; 
a  temple  of  the  god  of  healing  crowned  the 
summit. '  The  god  of  healing,  Cecilia, ' '  he  put 
in,  with  a  contempt  that  mantled  the  perfec 
tionist's  cheek  with  a  resentful  red,  "  means 
that  particular  deity—" 

A  soft  little  snore  came  from  Miss  Madigan. 
Her  head  had  fallen  to  one  side,  and  the  lamp 
light  shone  on  her  soft,  pretty,  high-colored 
face,  placid  in  its  repose  as  a  baby's. 

In  the  moment  that  Madigan  paused  and 
looked  at  her,  Sissy's  hand  sought  Kate's  in 
terror.  But  the  reader  controlled  himself  with 
an  effort,  remembering  possibly  that,  after  all, 
it  was  not  his  sister  but  his  daughters  he  was 
educating. 

"  'The  rock  was  covered  with  people,'  "  he 
went  on,  skipping  the  explanation  he  had  in 
tended  giving  to  Sissy.  And  he  read  on  for 
some  minutes  without  interruption,  becoming 
more  and  more  interested  himself  in  the  vivid 
picture  as  it  unrolled,  and  half  declaiming  it  in 
his  enthusiasm,  with  a  verve  that  accounted  for 
Sissy's  successful  rendition  of  "The  Polish 
Boy"  at  school  entertainments.  "  'The  trum 
pets  sounded, '  "  he  sang  out.  ' '  '  The  soldiers, 
clashing  their  bucklers  with  their  swords  and 


278  THE  MADIGANS 

uttering  the  war-cry  Alala!  Alala!  advanced 
in-'  " 

" Mercy  me!"  exclaimed  Miss  Madigan, 
waked  by  his  realistic  shout,  and  blinking  her 
bright  little  eyes  to  accustom  them  to  the  light. 

"Anne,"  said  Madigan,  tensely,  "if  you  are 
not  interested,  you— are  not  obliged  to  listen,  of 
course.  But  it  would  be  more— civil  to  with 
draw  if — 

"Not  interested!"  she  repeated,  with  gentle 
surprise,  as  she  took  up  her  crocheting  again. 
"Why,  it  's  very  interesting— most  interesting; 
don't  you  find  it  so,  Kate?" 

"  'A  man  dressed  in  purple  rushed  out  of 
the  temple  with  an  olive-branch  in  his  hand, '  ' ' 
Madigan  began  again,  all  the  ardor  gone  from 
his  voice.  "  'This  was  Hasdrubal,  the  com- 
mander-in-chief,  and  the  Robespierre  of  the 
Keign  of  Terror.  His— '  " 

"Missy  Kate— want  chocolate— picnic — 
Wong  stood  open-mouthed  in  the  doorway. 
Consciousness  of  having  interrupted  the  mas 
ter,  as  well  as  amazement  at  beholding  him  out 
of  his  own  room  after  dinner,  was  too  much  for 
him. 

"What  do  you  want,  Wong?"  demanded 
Madigan,  harshly. 

"Netting— oh,  notting,"  murmured  Wong, 


<  <  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN  "       279 

deprecatingly.  "One  picnic,  sabe,  t'-malla 
morning. ' ' 

"Irene— I  mean  Cecilia—  Tlfousand  devils! 
— Kate,"  stormed  Madigan,  in  his  rage  forget 
ting  his  daughter's  precise  appellation,  "go 
out  into  the  kitchen  and  give  your  orders.  If 
you  had  the  least  grain  of  common  sense  you  'd 
know  that  the  first  duty  of  a  housekeeper  is  to 
have  some  system  about  her  work ;  to  do  things 
at  the  right  time  and  not  to  interrupt  the  even 
ing's  entertainment."  He  gulped  a  bit  at  this, 
though  Kate's  dropped  lids  quickly  hid  the 
ironical  gleam  in  her  eye.  "Well,  why  don't 
you  go— and  stay!  You  might  as  well,  or 
you  '11  forget  something  else  and  interrupt  us 
again. ' ' 

A  desire  to  make  herself  look  very  numer 
ous,  intelligent,  and  appreciative  possessed 
Sissy  as  the  door  closed  on  her  big  sister.  She 
was  in  the  familiar  frame  of  mind  in  which  she 
disapproved  of  her  sisters,  yet  she  was  terri 
fied  lest,  if  she  gave  him  time,  her  father  might 
draw  the  same  inference  that  she  had. 

' '  Perhaps  you  '11  let  me  read  aloud  for  a 
while,  father.  Mr.  Garvan  often  has  me  read 
things  to  the  class,"  she  suggested  quickly, 
when  she  saw  he  was  about  to  close  the  book. 

Madigan  hesitated.    A  succession  of  infuriat- 


280  THE  MADIGANS 

ing  trifles  had  beat  upon  his  temper  till  it  was 
worn  thin.  But  Sissy's  outstretched  hand  con 
quered  merely  'hy  suggestion.  He  put  the  book 
before  her,  pointed  to  the  place,  got  to  his  feet, 
and  began  pacing  to  and  fro. 

i  i  '  Carthage  burned  seventeen  days  before 
it  was  entirely  consumed/  "  read  Sissy. 
"  'Then  the  plow  was  passed  over  the  soil  to 
put  an  end  in  legal  form  to  the  existence  of  the 
city.  House  might  never  be  built,  corn  might 
never  be  sown,  upon  the  ground  where  it  had 
stood/  " 

She  read  well,  did  Sissy,  as  she  did  most 
things.  Little  by  little  Madigan's  sharp,  quick 
steps  became  less  and  less  the  bodily  expression 
of  exasperated  nerves,  and  tuned  themselves  to 
the  meter  of  that  pretty,  childish  voice,  intelli 
gently  giving  utterance  to  the  thoughtful  phi 
losophy  that  had  always  soothed  him.  It  lost 
some  of  its  familiarity  and  gained  a  new  charm, 
coming  from  that  small,  round  mouth  which 
had  an  almost  faultless  instinct  for  pronuncia 
tion.  A  feeble  germ  of  fatherly  pride  began  to 
sprout  beneath  the  soil  upon  which  the  child's 
intelligent  reading  fell  like  a  warm,  spring 
rain. 

"One  moment,  Cecilia."  Madigan  stopped 
in  his  walk,  lifting  an  apologetic  hand  to  ex- 


6 1  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '      281 

cuse  the  interruption.  "You  read  just  now  of 
'the  Britons  of  Cornwall  gathering  on  high 
places  and  straining  their  eyes  toward  the  west ; 
the  ships  which  had  brought  them  beads  and 
purple  cloth  would  come  again  no  more. '  Now, 
to  what  does  that  refer?" 

Sissy's  hands  flew  to  her  breast;  and  before 
she  had  time  to  conceal,  to  pretend,  to  affect, 
he  had  seen  the  blank  expression  of  her  face. 
You  see,  she  had  been  merely  reading;  not 
thinking.  The  sound  of  her  own  voice  had 
drowned  the  sense.  To  read  intelligently  a 
thing  the  comprehension  of  which  was  far  over 
her  head  was  the  utmost  this  eleven-year-old 
could  do.  She  had  not  the  vaguest  idea  what 
she  had  been  reading.  It  was  all  a  blank ! 

Madigan  stood  petrified;  and  the  last  little 
martyred  ox,  stuffing  her  apron  into  her  mouth, 
that  she  might  not  weep  aloud,  hurried  from 
the  room. 

A  moment  longer  Madigan  stood.  Then  he 
looked  at  Miss  Madigan.  That  lady's  placid 
face  had  not  changed  a  particle.  She  sat 
crocheting  what  she  called  a  fascinator,  her 
white  bone  needle  moving  harmoniously  in  and 
out  of  the  blue  wool.  Had  she  heard  a  word 
that  had  been  read?  Her  brother  knew  better 
than  to  ask.  Did  it  make  the  least  difference  to 


282  THE  MADIGANS 

her  whether  he  read  from  ' l  The  Martyrdom  of 
Man"  or  not? 

Madigan  shut  the  book  with  a  bang.  The 
"  martyring, "  boomerang  that  it  had  proved, 
was  over. 

The  world  seems  new-born  every  summer 
morning  in  Virginia  City.  This  little  mining- 
town,  dry,  sterile,  and  unlovely,  and  built  at  an 
absurd  angle  up  the  mountain,  is  the  poor  rela 
tion  of  her  fortunate  cousins  of  the  high  Alps ; 
yet  shares  with  them  their  birthright— an  open, 
boundless  breadth  of  view,  an  endless  depth 
of  unpolluted,  sparkling  air,  the  fresh,  shining 
virginity  of  the  new-created. 

It  was  the  sense  of  a  nature-miracle,  and 
the  desire  to  penetrate  still  farther  and  higher 
into  the  crystalline  sky  that  crowned  it,  which 
sent  the  Madigans  every  summer  toiling  up 
Mount  Davidson.  They  did  not  know  it,  but 
yearly  the  Wanderlust  seized  them,  and  as  all 
things  in  Virginia  point  one  way,  they  followed 
that  suggestion— upward. 

They  were  spared  the  usual  struggle  with 
Frances  (who,  after  being  coaxed,  bribed, 
threatened,  and  bullied,  had  at  last  annually 
to  be  run  away  from), for  the  reason  that  Frank 
had  not  slept  well  after  the  martyring,  and 


' '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN  "    283 

was  still  dreaming  of  creeping,  crawling  things 
with  blubber-lips  and  gloating  eyes  when,  in 
the  pellucid  dawn,  Jack  Cody  found  the  Madi- 
gans  waiting,  in  clean  calicoes,  perched  on 
their  bottommost  step. 

The  sun  was  barely  over  the  top  of  Sugar 
Loaf,  and  the  town,  scantily  shrubberied  (for 
water  costs  as  many  dollars  in  Virginia  as 
there  are  weeks  in  the  year),  lay  sleeping  in 
soft  chill  shadow  below  them,  looking  oddly 
picturesque  and  strange  in  the  unfamiliar 
light. 

"  Say,"  said  Cody,  "  I  think  I  see  that  Pem- 
berton  kid  coming  up  Taylor.  Is  he  coming 
along!" 

"No,"  said  Sissy,  promptly. 

"Yes,"  said  Split,  firmly. 

"Well,  I  did  n't  ask  him,"  from  Sissy,  with 
a  haughty  air  of  saying  the  last  word.  The 
Madigans  were  quite  accustomed  to  being  social 
arbiters  in  their  own  small  world. 

"Well,  I  did,"  remarked  Split,  easily. 

A  pugnacious  red  overshot  Sissy's  face. 
Crosby  was  her  property,  to  browbeat  and  mal 
treat  as  seemed  best  to  her.  She  felt  that 
Irene 's  interference  in  a  matter  that  was  purely 
personal  was  unwarranted  as  it  was  intoler 
able. 


284  THE  MADIGANS 

"He  always  has  such  good  cream-tarts, " 
explained  Split. 

"Well,  he  can  have  'em  and  keep  'em,"  de 
clared  Sissy,  savagely,  turning  her  back  as 
Crosby  yodled  a  greeting  and  waved  his  hat 
gaily  to  her. 

Cody  grinned.  ' '  I  think  that  kid  better  stay 
at  home.  It  won't  be  much  picnic  for  him, 
will  it,  Sissy?" 

Sissy  sniffed.  "He  's  Split's  company," 
she  said  loftily.  ' '  She  '11  make  things  pleasant 
for  him." 

But  Crosby,  glad  to  be  among  the  enticing 
Madigans  at  any  price,  and  innocently  joying 
in  the  picnic  spirit  that  possessed  him,  came 
whooping  to  his  fate. 

"Say,"  he  said  eagerly,  putting  down  his 
basket  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  a  good 
story  to  tell, ' '  do  you  know,  I  almost  got  caught 
this  morning.  Ma  said  I  was  n't  to  go,  but  I 
bet  I  wouldn't  stay  at  home.  So  I  told  Delia 
to  put  up  my  lunch  last  night,  and  to  put  in  a 
lot  of  those  cream-tarts  you  like,  Sissy— you 
used  to  like,  Sissy.  ..." 

But  Sissy,  actuated  by  a  delicate  desire  not 
to  interfere  in  the  slightest  with  Split's  plans 
for  the  entertainment  of  her  guest,  was  deep 
in  conversation  with  Jack  Cody.  Crosby's  jaw 


' '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '    285 

fell.  He  saw  her  give  her  round  tin  lunch- 
hucket— the  one  he  had  so  often  carried  to 
school  for  her— to  Cody,  to  sling  with  his  own 
upon  a  leather  strap.  And  as  he  watched  her 
start  up  the  ravine  carrying  one  end  of  the 
strap,  and  the  washerwoman's  boy  the  other, 
he  wondered  passionately  within  himself  at  the 
faithlessness  and  ingratitude  of  women. 

Was  n  't  it  enough  to  have  a  reckoning  with 
Madam  Pemberton  at  the  end  of  his  day,  with 
out  having  that  precious  time  utterly  spoiled? 
He  felt  like  turning  back.  Sissy  knew  well  that 
there  could  be  no  picnic  for  him  within  the  pale 
of  her  displeasure.  The  mountain  air  might 
be  never  so  sweet  with  the  wild  sage  perfuming 
it;  the  sun  striping  the  shadowy  town  below 
with  bloody  bands  might  be  never  so  promis 
ing;  the  mountain's  peak,  soft  and  deceitfully 
near,  might  be  never  so  tempting— with  Sissy 
chattering  gaily  in  advance,  ostentatiously  ig 
norant  of  his  very  existence,  the  glory  was  cut 
out  of  Crosby's  morn.  It  seemed,  too,  to  him 
that  he  had  never  been  so  fond  of  her.  His 
mother's  disapproval  of  this  Madigan  since  a 
certain  episode  (to  avenge  which  cruel  Sissy's 
thirst  could  never  be  slaked)  had  put  the  last 
touch  to  his  devotion.  That  matron's  pleasure 
in  their  intercourse  hitherto  had  been  the  one 


286  THE  MADIGANS 

drawback  to  his  delight  in  it.  In  his  eyes,  his 
inamorata  walked  now  with  the  crown  of  the 
forbidden  upon  her  haughty  little  head;  and 
that  Crosby  was  more  of  a  natural  boy  than 
his  effeminate  tastes  indicated  is  proven  by  the 
fact  that  he  loved  Sissy  far  more  for  this  than 
for  being  "the  good  one"  his  mother  had  once 
thought  and  proclaimed  her. 

At  the  sluice-box  which  circles  Mount  David 
son,  bringing  the  purest  of  water  from  a  moun 
tain  lake,  the  party  halted  and  was  joined  by 
other  brave  mountaineers,  big  and  little;  the 
latter  in  calico  skirts,  and  shirts  and  knicker 
bockers.     Bombey  Forrest  was  the  only  one 
who  came  under  neither  of  these  heads.     She 
was  a  slender  slip  of  a  girl  whose  mother,  to  the 
scandal  of  conventional  folk,  believed  that  for 
the  first  decade  or  so  of  child-life  the  boy's 
costume  is  fitter  than  the  girl's.     So  Bombey 
wore  a  knickerbockered  sailor-suit  with  a  broad 
collar  and  white  braid ;  wore  it  with  a  bit  of  a 
conscious  air,  yet  with  that  grace  which  long 
use  and  habit  lend ;  with  piquancy,  too,  for  she 
was  the  least  masculine  of  girls  in  mind  and 
manner,  and  her  delicate  face  with  its  golden 
curls  bloomed  like  a  flower  on  a  strange  stalk, 
above  the  assertive  masculinity  of  her  attire. 
It  was  to  Bombey  that  Crosby  Pemberton 


"THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN"    287 

turned  for  solace.  (Split  had  promptly  de 
serted  him  for  Kate,  whom  she  suspected  of  a 
contemptible  desire  to  cut  loose  from  the  Madi- 
gans  as  children,  and  join  the  older  members 
of  the  party.)  He  had  not  had  the  courage  to 
forgo  the  picnic,  though  he  knew  his  mistress 
well  enough  to  be  sure  that  by  the  end  of  the 
day  he  would  realize  that  that  course  would 
have  been  the  least  painful.  He  carried  Bom- 
bey  's  basket,  like  the  little  gentleman  he  was; 
not  in  the  division-of-labor  fashion,  from  which 
Cody's  and  Sissy's  jangling  buckets  extracted 
a  sort  of  cow-bell  music  as  they  ran  merrily 
along,  far  in  advance. 

Cody  spied  the  two  below  when  he  and  Sissy 
sat  down  to  rest  on  a  huge  boulder.  Jack  never 
knew  how  to  treat  Bombey  Forrest,  always 
feeling  that  the  most  decent  thing  to  do  was 
not  to  look  at  her.  Despite  his  own  bitter  and 
recurring  experiences  (which,  one  might  fancy, 
would  have  made  him  tender  to  the  vicissitudes 
of  sex  as  warranted  by  clothing),  something 
in  him  felt  outraged  and  resentful  at  the  sight 
of  her. 

' l  Look  at  the  girl-boy  and  the  boy-girl !  "  he 
sneered.  ' '  See  how  they  poke  along.  They  '11 
never  get  to  the  top." 

Sissy's    shoes   were    hot    and   dusty.      The 


288  THE  MADIGANS 

strong  odor  of  sage-brush  was  in  her  nostrils. 
Her  skirt  was  torn,  and  the  short-stemmed  des 
ert-lilies  she  held  in  a  moist  hand  were  wilted. 
But  she  was  happy,  for  she  was  outdoing,  she 
was  pretending,  and  she  was  punishing.  The 
only  thing  that  detracted  from  her  pleasure  was 
to  be  obliged  to  concur  in  Cody's  opinion.  That 
roused  her  perversity.  She  loved  to  lead  or  to 
oppose— not  to  agree. 

"  Let  's  go  on,'7  she  said  imperiously. 
"What  are  you  stopping  for?" 

As  the  sun  climbed  higher,  the  mountain's 
top  got  farther  and  farther  away.  But  Cody, 
who  had  scaled  not  only  its  summit,  but  the 
flagpole  that  tipped  it,  knew  its  habit  of  piling 
one  small  hill  up  behind  the  other,  as  though, 
like  a  grotesque  Gulliver  playing  a  practical 
joke,  it  delighted  in  fatiguing  and  disappoint 
ing  the  Liliputians  that  swarmed  up  from  its 
base.  Crosby  and  Bombey  and  the  twins,  with 
the  Misses  Blind- Staggers,— blinder  than  ever 
to-day  for  the  glare  on  their  blue  goggles,— had 
yielded  long  since.  They  were  camping  pa 
tiently  in  a  ravine  far  below,  where  a  tiny 
spring  hinted  at  dining-room  conveniences. 
The  rest  of  the  party,  with  Irene  revenging 
herself  upon  Kate's  disloyalty  by  sticking  like 
a  burr  to  that  young  lady  (whom,  Split 


' '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '    289 

thought,  Mr.  Garvan  was  treating  altogether 
too  much  like  a  young  lady),  was  close  on  the 
vanguard's  heels.  And  Sissy  and  Cody,  pant 
ing  now,  but  toiling  doggedly  on,  had  reached 
the  cool  little  cup-shaped  hollow  in  the  cone 
where  the  snow  lies. 

From  here  to  the  top  was  but  a  few  minutes ' 
run.  Cody  was  all  for  halting  and  snow-ball 
ing  the  party  as  it  came  up,  but  Sissy  was  too 
exhausted  to  stop  now. 

"We  '11  rest  at  the  top  of  the  hill,"  she  de 
cided  impatiently,  and  hurried  him  on,  both  a 
bit  out  of  temper. 

No  beauty  of  winding  river  and  peaceful  val 
ley  checkered  with  fields  of  grain,  no  low-lying 
gardens  and  climbing  forests,  reward  the  sealer 
of  the  heights  behind  the  Comstock— only  the 
bare  little  brown  town  far  down,  digging  tena 
cious  heels  into  the  mountain's  side  and 
propped  up  with  spindle-shanked  foothold,  the 
great  white  inverted  cones  of  steam  rising  from 
the  mines,  the  naked  and  scarred  majesty  of  the 
gray  mountains  all  about,  the  desert  gleaming 
like  a  lake  in  the  east,  and  Washoe  Lake 
gleaming  like  a  desert  in  the  west.  § 

Yet  Sissy  held  her  breath.  Something  in  the 
still  purity  of  the  air,  the  savage  grandeur  of 
the  mountains,  the  great  arch  of  liquid  blue 


290  THE  MADIGANS 

above  her,  caught  and  held  her  impressionable 
spirit.  She  stretched  out  her  hands— a  small, 
petticoated  Balboa— to  the  world  she  had  dis 
covered.  "  It— it  makes  you  want  to  scream, " 
she  stammered. 

"  Booh!  "  It  was  a  yell  from  Cody,  deliv 
ered  full  in  her  ear.  < '  If  you  want  to  scream, 
darn  it,  scream!"  was  his  practical  advice  as 
he  spat  out  the  sunflower-seeds  he  had  been 
chewing  and  prepared  to  climb  the  pole. 

Sissy  stood  looking  at  him,  the  color  flooding 
her  face.  And  as  he  noted  her  expression,  the 
boy  suddenly  remembered  that  he  did  not  like 
Split's  sister.  But  his  mild  memory  of  dis 
taste  was  as  nothing  to  the  disgust  that  pos 
sessed  Sissy.  In  her  ecstasy  she  had  unwit 
tingly  lifted  a  corner  of  the  lid  that  she  kept 
tight  over  her  emotions.  Logically,  she  hated 
the  unimpressed  and  profane  witness  of  the 
phenomenon. 

She  turned  her  back  on  him,  refusing  even  to 
look  at  his  progress  up  the  high  pole.  She 
would  not  see  when,  at  its  top,  small  as  a  fly  at 
the  point  of  a  pencil,  he  waved  his  hat  and,  ulu- 
•lating  brassily,  gave  vent  to  the  desire  to  be 
noisily  vocal  which  had  clutched  Sissy's  throat 
into  silence.  At  luncheon,  she  found  a  spot 
that  was  farthest  from  him ;  and  when  he  and 


' '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '     291 

Split  tore  noisily  down  the  mountain's  side  on 
the  way  back,  she  submitted  rather  to  be  out 
done  than  to  join  a  party  of  which  he  was  one. 

Crosby  Pemberton,  bracing  himself  for  the 
derision  he  expected  from  her,  was  delighted 
to  see  her  come  sliding  down  alone  to  the  ra 
vine,  where  the  successful  ones  paused  to  take 
up  the  rest  of  the  party.  Her  solitary  state  en 
couraged  him,  and  he  sought  her  where  she  sat 
knocking  the  sand  out  of  her  shoe. 

t  i  Sissy, ' '  he  said  softly,  holding  out  a  peace- 
offering,  "I  saved  some  cream-puffs  for  you." 

But  the  ruthless  Sissy  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
placated.  "You  mean  for  Split,  don't  you!" 
she  said,  scarcely  looking  at  him,  and  diligently 
lacing  her  shoe.  ' l  She  asked  you  to  come,  you 
know.  I  did  n  't. " 

With  the  look  of  a  wounded  dove,  Crosby 
turned,  and  Sissy  saw  Irene  a  moment  later,  her 
teeth  gluttonously  closed  over  one  of  Delia's 
biggest  puffs,  a  heart-breaking  amount  of  "fill 
ing  ' '  gushing  over  her  cheeks  and  chin. 

But  to  do  without  for  the  sake  of  principle 
was  ever  rapture  to  the  purist.  Sissy  placed 
the  pangs  of  desire  to  the  credit  side  of 
Crosby's  account;  this  was  only  one  thing  more 
she  owed  her  victim.  In  fact,  as  the  party 
started  on,  so  engaged  was  she  in  inventing  and 


292  THE  MADIGANS 

perfecting  tortures  for  him  that  she  followed 
the  procession  on  its  unusual  detour  without 
demur.  It  was  only  when  it  was  too  late  that 
she  saw  Bullion  Ravine  ahead  of  her,  and  the 
swaying  high  trestle  over  which  the  flume  is 
carried. 

Split's  malicious  face  as  that  most  sure 
footed  of  Madigans  touched  the  first  plank 
made  Sissy  realize  the  test  to  which  she  was 
to  be  put.  Her  terror  of  giddy  heights  was 
treated  as  an  absurd  affectation  by  the  steady- 
headed  Madigans,  and  as  such  requiring  dis 
cipline,  which,  with  truly  sisterly  foresight, 
Split  had  provided.  She  ran  across  now  with 
the  joy  of  a  thing  that  feels  itself  flying.  Jack 
Cody  turned  a  handspring  in  the  very  middle ; 
and  the  sight  so  nauseated  Sissy  that  she  had 
to  stand  aside  and  let  those  immediately  behind 
her  pass  first.  Yet  she  dared  not  remain  till 
the  last,  for  a  panicky  picture  in  her  mind 
showed  her  to  herself  paralyzed  forever  on  the 
brink.  As  she  put  her  foot  on  the  first  board, 
beneath  which  she  could  hear  the  running  wa 
ter  chuckling  and  gurgling  as  it  ran,  she  swore 
to  herself  that  she  would  not  look  down.  And, 
indeed,  she  did  keep  her  eyes  on  Crosby  Pember- 
ton's  straw  hat,  as  he  walked  some  distance 
in  front  of  her.  But  the  moment  his  foot 


' '  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '     293 

touched  the  ground  on  the  other  side,  the  light 
structure,  relieved  of  his  weight,  changed  its 
rhythmic  swaying,  which  had  measured  the 
steady  strength  of  his  step.  Its  rebound,  ex 
aggerated  by  Sissy 's  tense  nerves,  seemed 
sickeningly  high;  its  fall  ghastly  low.  Swung 
there  from  mountain  to  mountain,  its  slender 
supports  looked  frail  as  a  spider's  woof,  and 
seemed  to  tremble  with  every  gasping  breath 
she  drew.  In  spite  of  herself,  her  eye  caught 
the  silvery  glitter  of  the  thread  of  water  far 
below  in  the  stony  bed  of  the  nearly  dry  creek. 

It  was  all  over  with  Sissy.  Trembling  with 
terror,  she  sat  down,  clutching  the  edge  of  the 
board  beneath  her,  the  world  swimming  away 
before  her  shut  eyes,  just  as  it  did  when  one 
looked  too  long  through  a  knot-hole  at  the  flow 
ing  race  in  the  flume  beneath. 

Irene's  giggle  came  faintly  to  her;  she  was 
too  terrified  to  resent  it.  The  murmur  of 
voices  that  called  her  name,  encouragingly, 
warningly,  angrily,  was  not  so  loud  as  the 
chuckling  of  the  water  in  the  box  which  seemed 
to  hurry  her  senses  away.  She  lived  through 
years  of  agony,  in  which  she  found  herself 
wishing  that  she  could  only  fall  and  end  it. 
Then  she  felt  the  trestle  bound  beneath  her,  and 
she  was  waked  by  the  touch  of  Crosby's  hand. 


294  THE  MADIGANS 

' i  Get  up ! "  he  said  in  a  tone  of  command  that 
reminded  her  of  that  grenadier  his  mother. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  saw  that  his  face  was 
white,  but  the  glitter  of  determination  in  his 
eyes  was  so  new  and  curious  that  it  held  her  at 
tention  for  the  moment  necessary  to  give  her 
strength  to  obey.  He  almost  pulled  her  to  her 
feet,  and  then  half  dragged,  half  ran  with  her 
across.  Yet  within  ten  feet  of  the  end,  the 
trembling  of  his  hand  had  communicated  itself 
to  her  whole  body.  She  watched  the  drops  of 
perspiration  fall  from  his  pale  face  and,  fas 
cinated,  followed  them  down  with  her  eyes. 
Then  wrenching  her  hand  from  his,  she  almost 
fell  down  again.  It  seemed  to  her  her  head 
swayed  back  and  forth  with  such  force  as  might 
bear  her  whole  body  with  it,  and  she  squatted 
down,  shivering. 

It  was  a  most  humiliating  finish  to  an  excit 
ing  adventure,  for  when  he  strove  to  compel 
her  again  to  rise,  Crosby  found  that  terror  is 
contagious.  He  himself  dared  not  stand.  He 
squatted  down  in  front  of  her,  and  on  all  fours 
the  two  crawled  toward  the  bank.  Sissy  could 
have  kissed  the  earth  when  her  hands  touched  it. 

But  it  took  her  some  time  to  recover.  The 
sympathetic  fussing  of  the  Misses  Bryne-Sti- 
vers  she  endured  as  in  a  dream.  She  even  per- 


<  <  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MAN ' '     295 

mitted  Mr.  Garvan  to  take  her  hand  and  help 
her  walk  for  a  time.  But  when  they  reached  the 
first  house  and  had  turned  down  Taylor  Street, 
she  was  so  thoroughly  herself  that  she  contrived 
to  let  the  rest  pass  her,  and  she  rested  till 
Crosby  came  up.  She  was  walking  beside  him, 
with  a  sudden  flattering  kindness  that  almost 
turned  his  head,  when  he  looked  in  the  direction 
in  which  her  eyes  were  fixed,  and  saw  his 
mother  in  her  phaeton  pull  up  and  beckon  to 
him. 

He  looked  shyly  at  Sissy.  He  would  have 
given  much  to  be  told  that  this  forgiveness  was 
not  to  be  merely  temporary,  like  others  that 
had  preceded  it  whenever  Mrs.  Pemberton 
might  see  and  disapprove;  that  he  was  no 
longer  to  be  flouted  and  scorned  when  there  was 
nobody  but  Sissy  herself  to  be  glad  of  it. 

1 '  The  shadow  of  the  guillotine  is  over  you !  ' 
said  Sissy,  in  a  bombastic  whisper  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Pemberton— a  comforting  formula  the 
Madigans  had  invented  to  still  their  envy  of 
those  who  rode  in  carriages.  But  her  smiling 
face,  when  it  turned  toward  Crosby,  had  no 
threat  in  it. 

Relieved,  forgiven,  reinstated,— for  there 
was  a  promise  without  words  in  his  tyrant's 
good  humor,— Crosby  laughed  out  gaily.  At 


296  THE  MADIGANS 

that  moment  tie  had  no  more  fear  for  Madam 
Pemberton  than  for  the  invoked  Madame  Guil 
lotine. 

' '  S '  long,  Sissy, ' '  he  cried,  waving  his  basket 
to  her  as  he  went,  a  young  aristocrat,  to  meet 
his  fate. 

That  night  Sissy  said  her  prayers  in  a  rush. 
She  wanted  to  give  her  undivided  attention  to 
plans  of  revenge  on  Split. 


KATE : A  PRETENSE 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE 

lesser  Madigans  meant  to  stand  no 
-  nonsense  from  Kate.  Other  girls'  big 
sisters  had  been  known  to  assume  superiority 
as  their  skirts  lengthened,  and  to  imply  an  eso 
teric  something  in  their  experience  which 
younger  sisters  could  not  comprehend,  and 
privileges  which  they  might  not  share.  But 
for  them,  the  Madigans,  though  they  were  gra 
ciously  willing  to  count  Kate  out  of  such  out 
door  sports  as  were  incompatible  with  length 
ened  skirts,  she  might  come  no  pretense  of 
young-ladyhood  over  them.  They  were  on  the 
watch  for  the  smallest  affectation,  the  least  sen 
timentality ;  and  as  for  beaus  per  se— just  let 
Kate  try  it! 

Kate  did,  being  human,  a  Comstock  girl 
when  girls  were  in  a  delightful  minority,  and 
a  Madigan.  But,  realizing  the  argus-eyed 
watch  put  upon  her,  and  the  forthright  meth 
ods  of  her  sister  Madigans,  she  -tried  it  secretly. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  old  Westlake,— he  was 
at  least  thirty-five  years  old  —whose  intentions 

299 


300  THE  MADIGANS 

were  quite  apparent.  He  came  up  to  play  whist 
at  the  house  whenever  he  was  in  town,  upon 
which  occasions  Kate  was  always  his  partner; 
and  he  scolded  her  with  the  same  proprietary 
freedom  for  leading  a  li  sneak "  suit  as  Francis 
Madigan  did  his  sister — a  lady  who  was  never 
known  to  know  what  was  trumps,  and  who 
smiled  and  blinked  and  blushed  and  made  the 
same  mistakes  over  and  over  again  with  a  com 
placency  that  Madigan 's  fiercest  thumps  upon 
the  table  could  not  shake. 

But  the  Madigans  forgave  Kate  her  West- 
lake,  for  the  pleasure  she  took  in  guying  him, 
and  the  loyal  frankness  with  which  she  let  them 
into  all  the  moves  of  the  game.  He  was  ' '  The 
Avalanche ' '  to  her  and  to  them,  because  of  his 
avoirdupois,  his  slow  movements,  and  the  im- 
perviousness  to  a  joke  with  which  he  was  cred 
ited;  because  he  could  not  take  in  all  the  little 
infinity  of  homely  facetiae  in  which  the  Madi 
gans  lived  and  had  their  being.  Besides,  it 
was  pleasant  and  exciting,  being  leagued  with 
Kate  against  Aunt  Anne,  who  was  known  to 
have  positively  had  the  indecency  to  speak 
openly  upon  the  subject,  and  in  favor  of  it,  to 
her  oldest  niece! 

"Fly,  the  Avalanche  is  upon  you!"  was 
Sissy 's  dramatic  way  of  warning  her  big  sister 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  301 

that  her  suitor  had  been  spied  by  the  outpost 
coming  up  the  steps. 

And  on  such  occasions  Kate  could  slip  out  of 
the  side  door  and  be  safely  inside  the  Misses 
Blind-Staggers 's  sitting-room  by  the  time 
Westlake 's  heavy  step  made  the  porch  shake— 
and  Sissy,  too— with  laughter.  But  this  was 
before  she  went  to  open  the  door. 

"Is  your  sister  at  home?"  old  Westlake 
asked  confidently 

"Which  one— Irene?  Yes,  she  ?s  home." 
Sissy's  small  round  face  was  simplicity  and 
candor  incarnate. 

"  No,"  said  old  Westlake,  uncomfortably. 
He  had  seen  shrewdness  once  or  twice  behind 
the  eyes  where  innocence  now  dwelt,  and  he 
only  half  trusted  this  demure,  blank-faced 
child.  "I  mean  your  sister  Katherine." 

"Oh!"  Cecilia  exclaimed,  in  gentle  surprise. 
t  i  Oh,  no,  sir,  she  's  out. ' ' 

"Indeed!" 

Old  Westlake  fancied  he  heard  a  mocking 
"indeed"  that  followed.  In  fact,  an  echo  that 
had  the  queer  effect  of  making  him  hear  double 
seemed  to  accompany  all  his  words.  It  came 
from  the  portieres,  which  were  suspiciously 
bulky,  and  shook  as  though  something  more 
than  the  wind  moved  them. 

17 


302  THE  MADIGANS 

'  '  And  how  soon  will  she  be  home  ? ' '  he  asked. 

4  *  Kate  I  You  mean  Kate?  Oh,  I  really  do 
not  know. ' '  Sissy  pronounced  her  words  with 
pedantic  care— a  permissible  thing  among 
Madigans  when  adults  were  to  be  guyed. 

Old  Westlake  (he  was  rather  a  handsome  old 
fellow,  with  his  regular  features,  his  blond 
mustache,  and  prominent  blue  eyes)  fidgeted 
uneasily.  There  must  be  some  way,  he  felt,  of 
moderating  this  half-chilly,  half-critical  at 
mosphere  on  the  part  of  the  smaller  Madigans. 
But  children  were  riddles  to  him,  and  the  solu 
tions  his  small  experience  offered  were  either 
too  simple  or  too  complex. 

"She  can't  be  intending  to  spend  the  whole 
day  out?"  he  asked,  conscious  that  he  presented 
a,  ridiculous  figure  to  the  childish  gray  eyes 
lifted  to  his. 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  she  can,"  agreed 
Sissy.  "Won't  you  come  in?" 

He  followed  her  hesitatingly  into  the  parlor 
and  sat  down,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  portieres 
over  the  front  windows,  which  still  appeared  to 
be  strangely  agitated. 

"  You— do  you  think  it  will  be  worth  while 
—my  waiting?  "  he  asked  helplessly,  as  Ce 
cilia  was  modestly  about  to  withdraw. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  the  bland  look  of 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  303 

intelligence  which  it  takes  a  clever  child  to 
counterfeit. 

"Worth  while  waiting  for  Kate!"  she  asked 
in  accents  half  puzzled,  half  reproachful. 

Old  Westlake  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his 
close-cropped  fair  hair.  He  fancied  he  heard  a 
muffled  gurgle  behind  the  portieres  that  was  n't 
soothing. 

"Oh— you  mean,  is  she  likely  to  come  home 
soon?"  added  Sissy,  gravely,  eying  his  dis 
comfiture.  ' '  I  really  do  not  know. ' ' 

"Is  Miss  Madigan  in?"  asked  the  desperate 
man. 

"Why,  do  you  call  her  that?  I  told  you  she 
was  out." 

"No ;  you  told  me  Katherine  was  out.  Is  she 
in  ? "  he  asked  eagerly. 

Sissy  stared  at  him  stupidly.  He  returned 
her  stare  contemplatively.  He  yearned  to  bribe 
her,  but  he  did  n't  dare.  She  looked  too  old 
to  be  bought,  too  young  to  understand ;  yet  he 
was  sure  she  was  neither. 

"Katherine,  Kate,  and  Miss  Madigan  are 
out,"  said  Sissy,  didactically.  "So  are  Kitty, 
Kathleen,  and  even  Kathy— that  's  her  latest; 
she  wrote  it  that  way  in  Henrietta  Bryne-Sti- 
vers  's  autograph-album. ' ' 

The  visitor  looked   bewildered.     "I   asked 


304  THE  MADIGANS 

you  whether  your  aunt  is  in,"  he  said,  with 
some  impatience. 

"I  beg  your  pardon, "  retorted  Sissy,  cere 
moniously.  No  Madigan  begged  pardon  un 
less  intending  to  be  doubly  offensive  thereafter. 
' i  You  asked  me  whether  my  sister  was  in. ' ' 

"Is— your— aunt— in! "  demanded  West- 
lake,  with  insulting  clearness. 

"She— is— in.  I  '11— tell— her— you  're— 
here. ' ' 

' '  Please. ' '  Westlake  bit  the  word  out,  prom 
ising  himself  that  his  first  post-nuptial  act 
would  be  to  shake  this  small  sister-in-law  well 
for  her  impertinence. 

And  this  was  the  pathos,  as  well  as  the  ab 
surdity  of  old  Westlake— he  was  so  confident. 

But  he  was  not  so  confident  that  he  did  not 
long  for  an  ally.  And  when  Split  stepped  out 
from  behind  the  portieres,  with  a  barefaced 
pretense  of  having  just  come  through  the  long 
French  window  from  the  porch,  he  straight 
way  invited  her  to  go  to  the  circus  that  even 
ing  with  him  and  Kate. 

There  happened  to  be  two  sties  on  Split's 
left  eye  just  then,  and  a  third  on  the  upper  eye 
lid  of  the  right  one.  But  this,  of  course,  was 
no  reason  for  discouraging  the  overtures  of  a 
poor  old  man  like  Westlake,  who,  it  appeared 
to  Split,  had  some  virtues,  after  all. 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  305 

That  evening  Sissy,  who  was  playing  holey 
down  on  Taylor  (a  famous  button-string  had 
Sissy,  as  token  of  her  prowess ;  it  had  a  sample 
of  almost  every  buttoned  frock  worn  in  Vir 
ginia  for  the  past  ten  years),  watched  the  three 
as  they  set  out  for  the  tent  far  down  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  And  three  things  occurred  to  her, 
as  she  stood  looking  after  them,  Bombey  For 
rest  waiting  vainly,  meanwhile,  for  her  to  shoot : 
First,  that  if  his  desire  was  to  propitiate  the 
clan,  old  Westlake  had  selected  the  wrong 
Madigan:  Split  being  not  nearly  so  tenacious 
an  enemy  nor  so  loyal  a  friend  as  herself.  Sec 
ond,  that  that  same  Split  looked  "like  a  silly'7 
with  the  white  handkerchief  bound  over  her 
left  eye,  and  her  right  one  swollen  and  teary. 
She  wondered,  did  Sissy,  that  they  should  take 
such  a  fright  with  them.  And  thirdly,  the  cen 
sor  of  the  family  sins  made  a  mental  note  to 
the  effect  that  Kate  Madigan  was  putting  on 
altogether  too  many  airs  as  she  pulled  on  her 
gloves;  there  was  an  inexcusable  self -conscious 
ness  about  her  manner  toward  the  Avalanche; 
and  as  for  old  Westlake  himself,  he  was  clearly 
taking  advantage  of  Split's  blindness  and 
casting  such  glances  at  that  giddy  Kate  as  she, 
Sissy,  would  certainly  not  have  tolerated— if 
she  had  been  invited  to  go  to  the  circus.  If  only 
she  had ! 


306  THE  MADIGANS 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  esthetic  side 
of  life  for  the  Madigans  was  represented  wholly 
by  women's  walking-matches  and  the  circus. 
There  was  also  the  Tridentata. 

Of  course  the  Tridentata— the  name  was  sup 
posed  to  have  something  to  do  with  sage-brush 
—was  very  select.  Naturally,  for  it  had  had 
its  origin  in  Mrs.  Pemberton's  strenuous  es- 
theticism  and  double  parlors — possessions  of 
which  few  Comstockers  could  boast.  But  after 
the  infant  literary  society  had  learned  to  stand 
alone,  it  adopted  migratory  habits,  meeting  now 
at  the  Misses  Bryne-Stivers  's  cottage,  now  at 
Mrs.  Forrest's  over- furnished  rooms,  and  oc 
casionally  even  at  the  Madigans'. 

There  was  at  least  room  enough  at  the  Madi 
gans  ' ;  it  was  the  one  particular  in  which  they 
were  never  stinted.  The  long,  shabby  parlor 
had  sufficient  seating-capacity,  even  if  the 
chairs  were  not  all,  strictly  speaking,  present 
able. 

"Shall  I  bring  in  the  Versiye  fotoy?"  asked 
Split  on  one  of  the  occasions  when  the  meet 
ing  of  the  Tridentata  necessitated  a  real  house- 
cleaning  in  which  the  full  corps  of  Madigans 
took  part. 

"The  Versailles  fauteuil,  Ir*ene,"  replied 
Miss  Madigan,  doubtfully,  "is  not  reliable.  If 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  307 

I  was  n't  sure  that  Mrs.  Pemberton,  who  has 
seen  the  real  ones,  would  be  sure  to  ask  where  it 
is,  I  'd  keep  it  out ;  for  the  last  time  she  came  so 
near  sitting  on  it  while  I  was  reading  my  paper 
on  '  Home-keeping '  that  I  got  so  nervous  I  left 
out  all  that  part  about  the  housewife's  duty 
being,  above  all,  to  make  a  spiritual  home:  to 
diffuse  about  herself  a  home  atmosphere,  so 
that  wherever  she  sat,  wherever  two  or  three 
gathered  about  her,  there  was  the  Sanctuary  of 
the  Church  of  Home,  so  to  speak.  And— ' ' 

"Then  you  want  me  to  bring  it  in?"  Split 
had  too  much  to  do  to  listen  to  Tridentata  cul 
ture.  Her  humble  office  was  merely  to  make 
ready  for  the  literary  feast  and  modest  bodily 
refreshment  to  come. 

It  was  one  of  the  contradictions  of  Split's 
nature— her  intense  occasional  domesticity 
and  the  practical  good  sense  that  marked  her 
home  economies.  She  rose  now,  basin  in  hand. 
Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up,  her  bushy  hair,  a 
troublesome  half-length  now,  was  bound  up  in 
a  towel.  She  had  been  scrubbing  and  polishing 
the  zinc  under  the  stove,  and  she  was  as  happy 
as  she  was  executive.  She  flew  about  trilling 
"The  Zingara,"  with  a  smudge  on  her  chin  and 
a  big  kitchen-apron  tied  about  her  waist,  look 
ing  like  a  dirty  little  slavey;  yet  putting  the 


308  THE  MADIGANS 

mark  of  her  thoroughness  upon  everything  she 
touched  and  Miss  Madigan  overlooked. 

"The  big  rug  from  your  room  is  to  go  over 
the  hole  by  the  window  ?"  she  asked  perfunc 
torily,  being  half-way  through  the  hall  at  the 
time. 

' '  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  remembered  it, ' '  said 
Miss  Madigan.  "Mrs.  Forrest  tripped  in  that 
hole  the  last  time.  I  thought  it  was  exceedingly 
impolite  of  her  to  call  attention  to  it  that  way, 
because—' 

"Shall  I  turn  the  couch-cover?"  demanded 
Split. 

' 1 1  don 't  see  how  you  can, ' '  said  Miss  Madi 
gan,  helplessly.  "It  7s  worn  on  the  other  side. ' ' 

But  with  a  tug  Split  had  drawn  it  off,  pil 
lows  and  all,  and  she  flew  up-stairs,  carrying 
Kate  in  her  wake  to  help  her  pull  down  a 
portiere  which  she  intended  transforming  into 
a  couch-cover. 

Things  sentient  as  well  as  material  were  ac 
customed  to  doing  double  duty  at  the  Madi- 
gans'  on  Tridentata  nights.  When  Francis 
Madigan,  forewarned  that  his  bell  would  often 
be  rung  that  evening,  but  that  he  was  not  ex 
pected  to  resent  the  insult,  had  retreated  to  his 
castle  and  pulled  up  the  drawbridge  behind 
him,  the  slavey,  with  Sissy  as  assistant,  became 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  309 

doorkeeper,  and,  later,  butler.  Critics,  of 
course,  these  two  were  ex  officio;  and  from 
their  station  out  in  the  chilly  hall,  they  listened 
to  and  mocked  at  the  literary  program,  which 
Miss  Madigan  had  entitled,  "A  Night  of  All 
Nations. ' ' 

The  opening  duet  between  Maude  and  Hen 
rietta  Bryne-Stivers  they  had  heard  before. 
Few  people  in  Virginia,  indeed,  had  not. 

" Trash!"  Sissy  pronounced  it  in  Professor 
Trask's  best  manner. 

The  reading  from  " Sodom's  Ende,"  in  the 
original,  by  the  traveled  Mrs.  Pemberton,  was 
fiercely  resented  by  her  audience  outside  the 
gates.  It  always  made  a  Madigan  furious  to 
hear  a  foreign  tongue;  for,  apart  from  the 
affectation  of  strange  pronunciations,  the  de 
liberate  mouthing  of  words  (and  you  could  n't 
make  Sissy  Madigan  believe  that  Mrs.  Ramrod 
understood  half  of  what  she  was  reading  in 
that  guttural,  heavy  tongue),  there  was  the  im 
pugnment  of  other  people's  lack  of  linguistic 
accomplishment. 

The  critical  paper  on  Daudet  that  followed 
was  read  by  Miss  Henrietta  Bryne-Stivers. 
While  it  was  in  progress  the  two  Madigans 
out  in  the  hall  each  read  an  imaginary  paper 
on  the  same  topic,  finishing  with  that  identical 


310  THE  MADIGANS 

courtesy  which  Henrietta  had  imported  from 
Miss  Jessup's  school  in  the  city.  But  Split 
tripped  Sissy  as  she  was  bowing  over  low,  and 
she  fell,  as  softly  as  she  could,  to  the  floor.  Miss 
Madigan  looked  out  with  a  "S— sh!"  Sissy 
cast  off  all  blame  in  virtuous  dumb-show,  and 
in  the  pause  the  two  heard  Dr.  Murchison's 
voice  as  Henrietta  passed  him  and  the  door, 
on  her  triumphant  way  back  to  her  seat. 

"  Allow  me  to  compliment  you,  Miss  Henri 
etta,"  said  the  old  doctor,  pleasantly  excited 
by  so  youthful  a  lady's  literary  discrimination. 
"You  are  really  fond  of  Daudet,  then?" 

Henrietta  blushed.  "Oh,  no,  indeed,  doc 
tor!"  she  said  deprecatingly.  "At  Miss  Jes- 
sup's  we  girls  were  not  permitted  to  read  him, 
you  know." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  murmured  the  doctor.  "Only 
to  write  about  him  ? ' ' 

"Miss  Jessup  thought  it  was  more— fitting, 
with  the  French  authors, ' '  observed  Henrietta. 

"So  it  is,"  agreed  Murchison,  dryly.  "So 
it  is.  The  excellent  Miss  Jessups— how  well 
they  know ! ' ' 

"He  's  guying  her,"  chuckled  Sissy,  making 
a  mental  vow  to  read  Daudet  or  die  in  the  at 
tempt.  "And  she  does  n't  know  it." 

"Hush!"  came  from  Split. 


KATE;  A  PRETENSE  311 

In  a  tenor  a  bit  foggy,  but  effectively  sym 
pathetic,  old  Westlake  was  singing,  "Oh,  would 
that  we  two  were  maying ! ' ' 

Sissy  put  her  eye  to  the  crack  of- the  door, 
and  Split,  watching  her,  saw  her  round  face 
grow  red  and  indignant. 

"What  is  it!"  she  whispered,  squirming  till 
she  too  had  an  eye  glued  to  the  crack. 

"Look!"  exclaimed  Sissy,  disgustedly. 

Straight  in  their  line  of  vision  sat  Kate,  and 
upon  her  old  Westlake 's  eyes  were  ardently 
fixed  as  he  sang. 

"It  's— it  's  not  decent,"  declared  Sissy, 
wrathfully. 

"He  does  look  like  a  calf."  Split  grinned. 
Kate  looked  very  pretty  in  that  white  cashmere 
embroidered  in  red  rosebuds,  which  had  been 
made  over  from  the  box  from  Ireland,  Split 
said  to  Sissy,  and  so  was  deserving  of  forgive 
ness,  she  hinted ;  for  when  one  had  a  new 
frock- 
Sissy,  the  sensible,  snorted  unbelievingly. 
What  gown  had  ever  affected  her? 

"But  I  '11  get  even  with  him,"  she  said, 
stealing  on  tiptoe  down  the  hall.  "Just  you 
watch!"- 

Split,  her  nose  in  the  crack  of  the  door, 
watched.  The  Avalanche  had  finished  his  first 


312  THE  MADIGANS 

verse  and  begun  the  second,  when  Sissy  ap 
peared  in  the  parlor,  very  modest  and  retiring, 
walking  behind  chairs  and  effacing  herself  with 
an  ostentation  that  could  not  but  attract  all 
eyes.  She  stopped  at  Miss  Madigan's  chair, 
asked  a  question,— which  Split  knew  well  was 
utterly  irrelevant  and  immaterial,— and  re 
ceived  an  answer  in  Aunt  Anne's  company 
manner :  a  compound  of  sweetness  and  flustered 
inattention  which  no  one  could  mimic  better 
than  Sissy  herself. 

Then  she  withdrew,  slowly  and  by  a  tortuous 
route  which  brought  her  just  beside  him  at  the 
moment  Westlake  stopped  singing.  Without 
a  word,  yet  with  a  gracious  instinct  for  the 
momentary  confusion  in  which  the  performer 
found  himself,  his  seat  having  been  taken  while 
he  sang,  Cecilia  pulled  out  another  from  the 
wall  and  moved  it  slightly  toward  him. 

The  little  attention  was  offered  so  naturally, 
with  such  engaging  demureness,  that  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton— whom  the  social  amenities  in  children 
ever  delighted— almost  loved  Sissy  Madigan 
at  that  moment.  So,  by  the  way,  did  Split, 
out  in  the  hall,  her  eye  at  the  crack  of  the  door, 
her  feet  lifting  alternately  with  anticipative 
rapture.  For  it  was  the  Versailles  fauteuil  that 
Sissy  had  so  sweetly  selected  for  old  Westlake. 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  313 

And  when  the  big  fellow  came  down  to  earth 
with  a  crash,  rising  red  and  confused  from  the 
debris,  Sissy  was  already  out  in  the  hall.  She 
arrived  at  the  crack  in  time  to  see  Kate  stuff 
her  handkerchief  into  her  mouth  and  hurry  to 
the  window,  her  shoulders  shaking,  while  Miss 
Madigan  flew  to  the  rescue. 

It  took  a  recitation  in  Italian  by  Mrs.  Forrest 
to  rob  Sissy  Madigan,  judge  and  executioner, 
of  her  complacency  after  this.  Then  Aunt 
Anne  recited  "The  Bairnies  Cuddle  Doon" 
charmingly,  as  she  always  did,  but  most  Hi- 
bernianly,  with  that  clean  accent  that  makes 
Irish-English  the  prettiest  tongue  in  the  world. 
After  which  she  received  with  smiling  compla 
cency  the  compliments  of  Mrs.  Forrest,  who 
told  her  that  an  ideal  mother  had  been  lost  to 
the  world  in  her. 

Outside,  two  cynics  listened  with  a  bored  air. 
They  felt  that  they  required  a  stimulant 
after  this,  so  they  made  a  hurried  visit  to  the 
dining-room,  thereby  escaping  Mr.  Garvan's 
reading  of  "Father  Phil's  Collection/'  But 
when  Henrietta  Bryne-Stivers  delivered 
"Blow,  Bugle,  Blow,"  changing  from  speak 
ing  voice  to  the  sung  chorus  with  a  composure 
that  was  really  shameless,  the  critics  out  in  the 
hall  received  that  insulting  shock  which  novelty 


314  THE  MADIGANS 

inflicts  upon  the  provincial,  which  is  the  child 
ish,  mind.  They  revenged  themselves  in  their 
own  way,  mouthing  and  attitudinizing,  carica 
turing  every  pose  which  Miss  Henrietta  had 
been  taught,  by  the  instructor  of  Delsarte  at 
Miss  Jessup's,  was  grace.  They  were  caught 
in  the  midst  of  their  saturnalia  of  ridicule  by 
Kate,  who  promptly  exploded  at  their  uncouth, 
dumb  merriment. 

"Aunt  Anne  wants  you,  Sissy, "  she  said 
when  she  got  her  breath. 

In  an  instant  Sissy  was  sobered.  It  was  n't 
possible  that  she  was  to  be  sent  to  bed  before 
supper !  To  be  a  waiter  was  the  height  of  hap 
piness  for  Sissy. 

"It  's  because  of  the  Versiye  fotoy,"  gig 
gled  Split,  as  she  ran  off  to  the  dining-room. 

"It  is  n't,  is  it?"  whispered  Sissy  to  Kate. 
And  Kate  shook  her  head  reassuringly,  and 
waved  her  in.  She  could  n't  answer  audibly, 
for  Dr.  Murchison  was  tuning  up  his  sweet  old 
violin,  while  Maude  Bryne-Stivers  offered  to 
accompany  him  on  the  piano. 

But  Murchison  knew  too  much  of  the  man 
ners  and  methods  of  Jessup  's  Seminary,  as  re 
vealed  by  its  showiest  pupil. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Miss  Maude,  but 
this  is  a  very  old-fashioned  and  a  very  simple 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  315 

entertainment  I  'm  going  to  give.  Just  the 
things  that  I  play  to  myself  when  I  'm  weary 
of  listening  to  humanity  tell  of  its  ills  and 
aches— the  egotist !  Then  I  look  down  into  the 
beautifully  clean  inside  of  my  fiddle,  its  good 
old  mechanism  without  a  flaw,  and  listen  to  the 
things  it  has  to  tell.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  just  the 
same,  Miss  Maude ;  this  is  not  a  theme  worthy 
of  your  brilliant  rendition,  but,  as  I  said,  a 
simple,  old-fashioned  playing  of  the  fiddle.  I  '11 
supply  the  old-fashioned  part,  and  Sissy  here 
can  do  the  simple  accompaniment,  if  she  will. ' ' 

If  she  would !  Sissy  was  so  gaspingly  happy 
and  proud  that  she  forgot  even  to  pretend  that 
she  was  n't.  Seating  herself,  she  let  her  trem 
bling  fingers  sink  into  the  opening  chord,  while 
the  old  doctor's  bow  sought  the  strains  of 
"Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  of  "Annie  Laurie," 
the  "Blue  Bells  of  Scotland,"  and  "Rose 
Marie. ' ' 

The  unspoken  sympathy  that  existed  between 
these  two  flowed  now  from  the  bow  to  Sissy's 
fingers,  and  made  a  harmony  as  pretty  as  was 
the  sight  of  the  old  man  and  the  happy  child 
looking  up  at  him.  Sissy  Madigan  was  con 
scious  that  the  doctor  knew  her— almost;  that, 
nevertheless,  she  occupied  a  place  quite  unique 
in  his  heart.  And  she  loved  passionately  to  be 


316  THE  MADIGANS 

loved,  this  hypocrite  of  a  Madigan,  who  jeered 
and  jibed  at  any  demonstration  of  affection. 
A  sense  of  being  utterly  at  harmony  with  the 
world  possessed  her  now ;  the  fact  that  she  was 
"showing  off"  was  far,  far  in  the  background 
of  her  consciousness,  when  all  at  once  she  hap 
pened  to  glance  out  through  the  hall  door. 

She  had  left  it  ajar  behind  her,  expecting 
Kate  to  follow  her  in.  But  Kate,  evidently, 
had  not  followed.  She  stood  out  there  alone 
with  Mr.  Garvan,  her  arms  behind  her,  her  slen 
der  figure  drawn  up  beneath  the  swinging  hall 
lamp,  her  pert  little  head,  circled  by  the  braids 
she  wore  coiled  clear  around  it  when  she  wanted 
to  be  very  grown-up,  upturned  to  the  master, 
her  every  feature  stamped  with  coquetry. 

Sissy  shut  her  lips  firmly— and  the  wrong 
note  she  struck  marred  the  doctor's  finale.  It 
was  evident  that  Kate  Madigan  needed  looking 
after. 

She  did ;  and  yet  no  one  but  Kate  and  those 
she  experimented  upon  could  help  her  to  find 
herself. 

A  wilful  Madigan,  intoxicated  with  her  first 
taste  of  a  new  pleasure,  was  Kate.  She  had 
outgrown  her  short  skirts  with  regret ;  she  was 
preparing  to  make  them  still  longer  with  de- 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  317 

light.  She  had  the  maturity  of  her  motherless 
and  quasi-fatherless  state  to  add  to  the  natural 
precocity  of  the  mining-town  girl,  and  of  the 
eldest  sister  who  has  been  pushed  out  of  her 
childhood  by  the  press  of  numbers  behind  her. 
And  yet  the  wine  of  romance  kept  her  almost 
babyishly  young.  She  had  a  way  of  proclaim 
ing  the  fact  that  she  read  everything  her  father 
did.  (Madigan,  marooned  by  his  misfortunes 
in  the  most  picturesque  setting,  where  men  were 
living  the  most  picturesque  lives,  turned  his 
back  upon  it  all  and  found  the  action  his  dull 
days  were  denied  in  the  elder  Dumas.)  By  this 
Kate  intended  to  show  how  proud  and  unre 
strained  a  Madigan  was;  hoped,  too,  perhaps, 
that  there  might  attach  a  bit— the  least  bit— of 
suggestive  license  to  the  phrase.  And  all  the 
while  she  was  pitiably  unconscious  of  how  in 
nocuous  the  old  romanticist's  tales  of  adven 
ture  may  be,  read  in  translation,  by  the  light 
of  such  purity  and  innocence  as  hers. 

But  she  was  pert,  was  Kate,  and  piquant; 
she  presumed  upon  her  youth,  upon  her  age. 
She  was  a  child  when  you  expected  her  to  be  a 
woman,  and  a  woman  where  you  looked  for  the 
child.  No  dream  of  romance  was  romantic 
enough  to  hold  her  fickle  soul  constant  to  it— 
to  satisfy  the  hopes  of  her  heart.  Every  man 


318  THE  MADIGANS 

she  met  was  a  prince ;  yet  was  he,  too,  bare  and 
poor  and  mean  compared  with  The  Man  to 
come.  The  child  in  her  was  gauche  and  crude, 
sitting  in  judgment— as  cynical,  as  critical  a 
spectator  as  Sissy  herself —upon  the  very  hopes 
the  woman  awakened.  In  her  eyes  the  flash  of 
coquetry  was  succeeded  by  the  blank,  childish 
irony  which  denied  the  emotion  hardly  passed. 
She  loved  to  shock  pretense,  yet  she  was  the 
most  absurd  and  innocent  of  pretenders,  for 
the  terms  in  which  convention  speaks  were 
Greek  to  her.  She  was  masterful,  being  a  Madi- 
gan,  and  daring  and  impertinent.  A  creature 
utterly  impatient  of  forms,  with  a  boy-like  chiv 
alry,  revealing  how  incomplete  the  work  of  sex 
was  yet,  for  the  woman  misunderstood— whom 
she,  in  her  crude  purity,  understood  least 
of  all.  This  was  Kate,  ready,  at  fifteen,  to  bat 
tle  single-handed  with  windmills,  with  world- 
old  problems,  with  world-young  prejudices ;  to 
burn  intolerance  to  ashes  in  the  white  flame 
of  her  brave  young  innocence;  to  cry  aloud 
the  word  that  older,  wiser  cowards  whisper  or 
stifle  in  their  hearts;  to  make  no  compromise; 
to  know  that  black  is  black  and  white  is  white ; 
to  be  unforgiving,  as  only  cruel  young  inex- 
X)erience  can  be;  to  flame  at  a  wrong  and  glow 
at  its  righting;  and  yet  to  have  her  contradic- 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  319 

tions  cased  in  a  body  of  such  vivid  grace,  a 
inind  leavened  by  humor,  and  a  heart  of  such 
sweetness  as  made  her  the  irresistibly  lovable 
Pretense  she  was. 

Pretending  to  be  a  child,  to  annoy  her  Aunt 
Anne ;  pretending  to  be  a  woman,  to  infuriate 
her  younger  sisters;  pretending  to  be  a  saint, 
pretending  to  be  a  sinner ;  pretending  to  scorn 
the  world,  yet  quaffing  its  first  sweet  draughts 
of  individual  power  and  experience  with  full- 
opened  throat;  pretending  to  be  mannish— 
driven  to  that  extremity  by  the  super-feminin 
ity  of  Henrietta  Bryne-Stivers ;  pretending  to 
be  frivolous,  to  shock  rigid  Mrs.  Pemberton ; 
pretending  to  be  a  blue-stocking  with  a  passion 
for  the  solid  and  heavy  in  literature;  pretend 
ing  to  be  a  Spartan  who  must  rise  at  dawn  and, 
after  a  plunge  in  ice-cold  mountain  water,  climb, 
with  only  big  Don,  the  Newfoundland,  for  com 
pany,  up  to  the  sluice-box ;  there  to  pretend  she 
was  an  esthete  to  whom  the  sunrise,  while  she 
communed  alone  with  nature,  revealed  things 
invisible  to  the  world  below. 

But  Reality's  day  came.  Miss  Madigan  went 
out  into  the  future,  sent  thither  by  her  auntly 
sense  of  responsibility,  and  brought  it  back 
with  her.  It  led  them  straight  to  Warren  Pem 
berton  's  office,  and  Pretense  fled  like  a  shy 


320  THE  MADIGANS 

shadow  before  the  sun  when  Reality  looked  at 
her  through  Peinberton's  cold,  dull  eyes. 

"Miss  Madigan,  Mr.  Pemberton.  My  niece 
Kate, ' '  was  the  lady 's  introduction  as  they  en 
tered. 

The  red-faced,  heavy  little  man,  too  impor 
tant  a  personage  to  be  expected  to  contribute 
socially  to  the  life  of  the  town,  had  been  look 
ing  at  Miss  Madigan  as  though  he  knew  he 
ought  to  remember  having  met  her.  She  wanted 
something,  of  course.  Everybody  wanted 
something  from  Warren  Pemberton,  King 
Sammy's  viceroy,  in  charge  of  his  mining  in 
terests  and  his  political  plantations.  But  he 
brightened  at  the  formula,  recollecting  having 
heard  it  before  from  the  same  lady's  lips,  and 
promptly  placed  her  in  the  category  of  small 
political  favors. 

"I  remember  you,  Miss  Madigan— of 
course,"  he  stammered.  "Remember  the  little 
girl,  too.  Crosby's  flame,  eh?  " 

Kate  flushed,  struck  dumb  with  the  in 
sult,  and  her  black-gray  eyes  gleamed  hand 
somely  with  anger.  After  getting  herself  up 
in  her  most  mature  fashion  to  be  mistaken  for 
Sissy ! 

"Why,  Mr.  Pemberton/'  exclaimed  Miss 
Madigan,  flustered  by  propinquity  to  greatness, 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  321 

"this  is  Kate,  the  Miss  Madigan  who— for 
whom—'7 

"Oh,  excuse  me."  Pemberton  sat  rubbing 
his  chin  and  silently  blinking  at  the  Miss  Madi 
gan  for  whom  his  influence  had  been  invoked. 
She  felt  he  was  weighing  her  youth  and  inex 
perience  against  the  thing  that  had  been  asked 
for  her.  And  the  Madigan  in  her  fiercely  re 
sented  it;  was  tempted  to  confirm  his  doubts 
by  a  saucy  flippancy  that  would  relieve  her  im 
patience  of  a  false  position.  But  there  was  that 
other  Madigan  in  her  to  be  reckoned  with,  that 
new  one,  on  the  reverse  of  whose  shining,  ro 
mantic  shield  a  plain,  dull,  tenacious  sense  of 
duty  was  slowly  spelling  itself  into  legibility. 

i '  Kate  's  really  very  clever,  Mr.  Pemberton, ' ' 
said  Kate 's  aunt,  tactfully ;  and  the  girl 's  teeth 
clicked  together,  in  her  effort  to  control  her  irri 
tation.  "And  in  some  ways  she  is  much  older 
than  her  years.  She  will  graduate,  you  know, 
this  year  at  the  head  of  her  class;  she  passed 
first  in  the  examination,  and  really,  in  a  family 
where  there  are  so  many  girls—7' 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  interrupted  the  great 
man.  "You  told  me  all  about  that,  and  I—  " 

"And  you  Ve  had  time  to  realize  just  how 
extraordinary  a  creature  I  am  and  how  pitiful 
a  case  ours  is !  Am  I  too  brilliant  altogether  to 


322  THE  MADIGANS 

be  wasted  on  school-teaching?"  Wrath  tingled 
in  Kate's  voice.  She  heard  Miss  Madigan 's 
gasp  of  horror,  and  could  imagine  the  fishy  dis- 
consolateness  of  her  expression.  And  she  saw 
the  red-faced  little  man  opposite  her  start,  as  at 
the  injection  of  a  foreign  tongue  into  the  inter 
view. 

"Eh— what!  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  dully.  "I 
mean— no.  It  '11  be— it  's  all  right." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Pemberton,  how  can  I  thank  you!" 
Miss  Madigan  clasped  her  hands. 

"Yes;  I  spoke  to  Forrest  yesterday,  and— 
and,  of  course,  Murchison  's  willing, ' '  went  on 
the  little  man,  gravely.  "But  there  's  no  va 
cancy  just  now,  so  they  '11  arrange  to  appoint 
substitutes.  It  's  the  way  they  do  in  cities,  I 
understand.  And  Miss  Cecilia  here  will  be—" 

* '  My  name,  Mr.  Pemberton,  is  Kate ! ' ' 

"And  Kate  's  exceedingly  grateful."  Miss 
Madigan  gazed  amazed  at  her  niece ;  she  did  n't 
look  grateful. 

"Not  at  all;  not  at  all,"  murmured  Pember 
ton,  feeling  for  his  papers  helplessly.  "I  'm 
so  busy— ' ' 

"It— is  good  of  you,"  stammered  Kate,  ris 
ing.  * '  I  am— very  much  obliged  to  you. ' '  She 
held  out  a  hand  to  him  that  was  cold  to  the 
finger-tips.  All  at  once  she  felt  so  old,  so 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  323 

young,  so  niched  forever  in  a  somber,  gray  life, 
so  settled,  so  bound  up  by  small  formalities, 
so  miserably  unlike  a  Madigan ! 

Yet  the  Madigan  in  Kate  waked  with  a  de 
fiant  brightness  when  the  first  call  came  that 
took  her  temporarily  over  the  threshold  of  the 
new  life.  She  left  her  own  school-room,  where 
her  role  was  as  congenial  and  irresponsible  as 
Sissy's,  with  an  air  of  importance  that  roused 
envy  in  her  mates'  hearts. 

The  very  pretense  rallied  her,  excited  her,  in 
spired  her  to  continue  to  pretend  after  she  had 
left  her  audience  behind  her.  And  though  she 
entered  the  lower  class-room,  of  which  she  was 
to  have  charge  for  a  day,  with  a  terrified  feeling 
of  being  thrown  to  the  lions,  she  faced  the  un 
disciplined  mob  that  licked  its  lips  in  anticipa 
tion  of  a  feast  on  raw  young  substitute  with  a 
flash  in  her  eye  that  promised  battle  first. 

And  she  did  make  a  hit  at  the  beginning, 
thanks  to  her  sister  and  present  pupil,  Bessie, 
who  was  invariably  late  to  school. 

To  Bep,  the  aspect  of  her  own  sister  in  a 
position  of  authority  was  the  hugest  absurdity, 
and  when  the  blonde  twin  sauntered  in,  tardy, 
as  usual,  she  joined  the  class  as  one  of  the 
lions.  She  intended  to  give  Kate  distinctly 


324  THE  MADIGANS 

to  understand  that  she  was  mixed  primary 
pupil  first  and  a  Madigan  afterward;  that  the 
substitute  might  expect  no  mercy  from  her  on 
the  pitiful  plea  of  relationship. 

Bep's  attitude  was  very  Madigan;  the  only 
drawback  to  it  was  that  it  left  out  of  the  reck 
oning  the  fact  that  she  had  a  Madigan  to  deal 
with. 

' '  Elizabeth  Madigan, ' 7  said  the  substitute,  in 
the  clear,  high,  formal  tone  that,  in  itself,  was 
sufficient  to  sever  all  bonds  of  kinship,  "  where 
is  your  excuse  for  being  late?" 

Bep's  blue  eyes  blinked.  The  impudence  of 
Kate  to  talk  that  way  to  her ! 

"I  ain't  got  any.    Miss  Walker  never—  " 

"Miss  Walker  is  n't  teaching  to-day,77  re 
marked  the  substitute,  in  the  patient  tone  which 
the  enlightened  have  for  dullness.  "She  is  ill 
and  I  am  teacher  here.  Where  is  your  excuse V 7 

Bep  felt  the  silence  grow  around  her.  She 
saw  the  whole  school  drop  its  mirth  and  its  em 
ployments  to  watch  this  duel  between  Madigans. 

"Why,  you  know  very  well,  Kate  Madi 
gan—77  she  began  hotly. 

A  sharp  ring  on  the  bell  at  the  teacher  7s  desk 
cut  Bep  7s  eloquence  short.  ' i  If  you  have  any 
thing  to  say  to  me,  little  girl,  you  will  address 
me  as  Miss  Madigan.77 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  325 

The  audacity  of  it  struck  Bep  dumb.  Call 
that  slim  girl  Miss  Madigan?  She  'd  like  to 
see  herself! 

"You  will  go  home,  Elizabeth,"  the  substi 
tute  continued,  unconcernedly  making  her  way 
to  the  blackboard  as  though  this  life-and-death 
affair  were  a  mere  incident  in  her  many  duties, 
"and  bring  me  ba,ck  a  written  excuse  for  your 
tardiness. ' ' 

Bep  set  her  teeth.  "You  know  I  had  to  go 
an  errand  for  Aunt  Anne;  you  saw  me  your 
self,  ' '  she  muttered. 

"A  written  excuse,  I  said." 

"I  can't  get  any."  Yet  Bep  rose.  She  felt 
the  ground  slipping  from  under  her. 

' i  Then  I  am  sorry  to  say, ' '  remarked  the  sub 
stitute,  firmly,  "that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  have 
you  in  my  class  to-day.  Leave  the  room, 
Bessie.  .  .  .  Now,  children,  the  first  thing  to  do 
in  subtraction—" 

Bessie  walked  slowly  up  the  aisle  and  toward 
the  door.  With  the  prospect  of  a  double  disci 
plining,  at  home  and  at  school,  too,  she  dared 
not  rebel.  Yet  wrath  smoldered  within  her. 
She  came  to  where  the  substitute  stood  at  the 
board,  calmly  explaining  the  process  of  "bor 
rowing,"  and  the  resolution  to  regard  her  as 
an  undeserving  stranger  was  tempered  by 


326  THE  MADIGANS 

Bep's  desire  to  inflict  an  intimate,  personal  in 
sult. 

"I  would  n't  be  so  afflicted  as  you,"  she 
growled  under  her  breath,  like  a  small  Mrs. 
Partington,  misapplying  her  big  word  in 
her  wrath,  "for  all  the  world.  And  I  '11  get 


even ! ' ' 


A  gleam  of  quite  unofficial  laughter  lit  the 
substitute 's  eye.  i  i  You  mean  '  affected, '  my  lit 
tle  girl,  not  '  afflicted, '  "  she  said  clearly,  paus 
ing  pedagogically,  chalk  in  hand.  "Look  up 
the  difference  in  your  dictionary,  and  if  you 
can't  understand,  come  to  me  and  I  '11  explain 
it  to  you— after  you  bring  your  excuse." 

And  Bep  brought  her  excuse.  The 'substi 
tute,  her  cheeks  glowing  with  excitement,  yet 
calm-voiced  and  pretending  valiantly,  saw  the 
door  open  nearly  an  hour  later,  and  a  hand 
thrust  through  waving  an  envelop,  as  though 
it  were  a  lightning-rod  that  might  attract  the 
storm  of  her  wrath  away  from  the  one  who 
carried  it. 

Gravely,  even  encouragingly,  Miss  Kate 
Madigan  read  a  prayer  from  Miss  Anne  Madi- 
gan  that  the  teacher  would  kindly  excuse  the 
tardiness  of  Elizabeth,  her  niece.  She  placed 
it  on  file  religiously,  like  a  confirmed  devotee 
to  red  tape,  and  resumed  her  lesson  to  the  baby 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  327 

class,  with  a  matter-of-course  air  that  completed 
the  routing  of  Bep. 

But  there  was  still  another  relative  in  the 
mixed  primary— Frances.  For  half  a  day 
the  smallest  of  Madigans  was  supposed  to  be 
doing  kindergarten  work,  with  a  mild  infusion 
of  the  practical  in  the  shape  of  a-b-c's. 

It  did  not  occur  to  this  young  lady  to  try  to 
disown  the  substitute.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  exceedingly  proud  of  her  proprietary  in 
terest  in  the  teacher.  She  leaned  her  plump 
hand  upon  that  august  person's  knee  in  all  the 
easy  charm  of  intimacy  when  the  baby  class 
gathered  about  her,  and  was  so  intoxicated  by 
reflected  glory  that  she  forgot  the  two  letters 
of  the  alphabet  she  was  supposed  to  know. 

There  was  one  thing  no  Madigan— not  even 
Kate— could  pretend  to :  to  be  patient  was  be. 
yond  them  all,  talented  as  they  were. 

"It  's  <B,'  Frank !"  the  substitute  cried,  in 
her  exasperation  forgetting  the  dignified  de 
meanor  she  had  adopted.  "Say  'B,7  <B,7  you 
stupid  I" 

In  that  terrible  moment  Frank  realized  that 
there  were  drawbacks  to  being  too  well  ac 
quainted  with  the  teacher.  Her  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  chagrin.  "  <B,  B,  you  stupid  I'  "  she 
sobbed. 


328  THE  MADIGANS 

And  a  quick,  clear  laugh  from  the  substi 
tute  completed  the  demoralization  of  the  mixed 
primary.  It  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  "in 
order  "  when  Mr.  Garvan  visited  it. 

Oh,  to  be  out  of  school,  at  the  end  of  that 
first  day  of  adulthood!  To  be  unwatched,  to 
be  free,  to  be  little  and  young,  if  that  pleased 
one !  To  walk  up  the  hill  and  along  the  main 
street,  and  then,  just  as  one  was  about  to 
turn  the  corner  prosaically  and  mount  still 
higher— then  to  come  face  to  face  with  a  creature 
so  elegant,  so  visibly ' '  dressed,  "that  no  gambler 
in  town  could  outshine  him.  By  sheer  good 
luck,  to  have  been  introduced  to  this  dandy  in 
one's  capacity  of  teacher  of  the  mixed  primary 
that  very  morning,  when  he  had  been  given  per 
mission  by  Mr.  Garvan  to  make  an  announce 
ment  at  the  school  concerning  special  privileges 
granted  school-children  at  the  "high-class  min 
strel  performance"  given  at  Lally's  Opera 
House.  To  be  unhampered  now  by  the  timidi 
ties  of  office,  and  ready  to  pick  up  the  gage  of 
coquetry  his  saucy  glance  threw  down.  And 
so,  after  the  smallest  second's  hesitation,— the 
•  woman  in  one  stifling  both  the  child's  and  the 
substitute's  hesitation,— to  allow  the  gaudy 
stranger  to  walk  beside  one  the  length  of  C 


KATE:  A  PRETENSE  329 

Street.  And  though  the  sidewalk  was  crowded, 
for  stocks  were  up,  and  one  had  to  wriggle  one 's 
way  through  the  people  packed  tight  in  front 
of  the  brokers'  offices,  yet,  in  the  very  teeth  of 
the  townsfolk,  to  joy  shamelessly  in  flirtation 
with  this  gorgeous,  shining,  flattering  stranger 
—a  social  outlaw,  as  well  as  a  bird  of  passage, 
the  very  disrepute  of  whose  profession  made 
temptation  more  subtly  sweet! 

"Split,"  whispered  Sissy,  her  voice  muffled 
with  shame,— it  was  a  week  later,— "  Kate 
walked  with  a  minstrel !  What  shall  we  do ! ' ' 

"Did  she?  Who  told  on  her— Mrs.  Ramrod? 
Well,"  added  Split,  out  of  the  depths  of  ex 
perience,  "it  must  have  been  that  day  she  sub 
stituted." 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON 

IMPRISONED  in  skirts,  Jack  Cody  was 
awaiting  his  mother  and  relief,  when  there 
came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  distinctly 
not  Jane  Cody's  said: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  'm  sure,  but  your 
town  's  so  jolly  dark,  I  believe  I  Ve  lost  my 
way.  I  'm  looking  for—  My  word,  what  's 
that!" 

A  parabola  of  light  had  suddenly  shot  out 
athwart  the  soft  black  night.  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  hill  to  the  left,  and  it  was  accompanied 
by  the  tinkle  of  shattered  glass. 

1 l  It  's  the  Madigans. ' '  Jack 's  voice  was  wist 
ful  and  his  gaze  was  turned  longingly  upward. 

"Madigans!"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  look 
ing  in  amazement  from  the  boyish  face  sur 
mounting  a  shapeless  woman's  gown  to  the 
thing  it  watched  so  yearningly— a  light  flaring 
brightly  on  the  hill,  a  lot  of  small  dancing  fig 
ures  silhouetted  blackly  against  it,  the  smell  of 
coal-oil,  and  the  shrill  excited  laughter  of 
children. 

19  333 


334  THE  MADIGANS 

"Upon  my  soul,  yours  is  a  strange  country/' 
the  man  went  on— "  stranger  even  than  it  looks. 
How  in  the  world  did  you  know  that  I  was  look 
ing  for  the  Madigans  ? ' ' 

"Are  you?"  asked  the  boy,  dully.  His  body 
might  be  down  in  Jane  Cody's  cabin,  but  his 
soul  was  up  aloft  there  where  the  Madigans 
held  high  carnival.- 

"Yes,  I  am,"  answered  the  stranger,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  odd  figure  before  him. 

"Well,  there  they  are,"  the  boy  said,  point 
ing  upward  to  the  grotesque  dancing  shadows. 

"Eh?— I  beg  your  pardon,  I— I  don't  under 
stand.  Just  what  has  happened!"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"Nothing"  said  Jack.  "The  lamp  gets 
tipped  over  when  they  're  playing  Old  Mother 
Gibson,  and  they  just  throw  it  out  so  's  not  to 
set  the  house  afire. ' ' 

"Every  night?"  asked  the  man,  in  the  polite 
tone  strangers  adopt  in  striving  to  fathom  a 
local  mystery. 

"Nope,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
tone.  "They  can't  play  it  every  night;  some 
times  their  aunt  won't  let  'em." 

"You  appear  to  know  them."  There  was  a 
smile  hidden  beneath  the  voice;  but  Jack  was 
thinking,  not  of  the  questioner,  indistinguish- 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  335 

able  in  the  darkness,  but  of  the  mad  carnival 
up  yonder  on  the  hill. 

"Yep.  That  's  Split, "  he  said.  "That  one 
—see— with  the  bushy  lot  of  hair,  singing  and 
cake-walking  in  front.  She  can  do  a  cake-walk 
better  'n  any  nigger  I  ever  see. ' ' 

"Indeed!'' 

"That  's  Frank,  the  baby— the  one  that  >s 
screamin'  so.  You  can  tell  her  squeals ;  they  're 
laughin'  ones,  you  know." 

' '  I  suppose  I  ought  to  know.  Anyway,  I  'm 
glad  to  be  told." 

' '  Over  on  the  side  there,  where  there  's  a  kind 
of  blotch,  is  the  twins;  they  must  be  fighting. 
Don,  the  dog,  's  mixed  up  in  it  somehow. ' ' 

"My  word!"  exclaimed  the  man,  softly,  to 
himself. 

"That  's  Kate  dancing  round  on  the  porch, 
and  the  one  standing  high-like,  right  next  to  the 
fire,  with  her  arms  up  stiff,  as  if  she  was  run 
ning  the  whole  show,  sort  of— of— " 

"A  priestess,  say,  invocating  the  Goddess  of 
Kerosene ! ' ' 

"Huh?- Well,  that  's  Sissy." 

"Oh,  is  it!    Tell  me— is  she  nice— Sissy?" 

"What?"  asked  the  boy,  so  surprised  that  he 
withdrew  his  attention  from  on  high  and  stared 
out  at  the  man  on  the  door-step. 


336  THE  MADIGANS 

There  came  a  laugh  out  of  the  darkness.  "It 
is  an  odd  question,  but  then  everything  is  so 
odd  out  here,  I  half  hoped  you  would  n  't  notice 
it.  But  you  do  know  them,  evidently.  I  won 
der—do  you  mind  going  up  there  with  me  and 
showing  me  the  way  1 ' ' 

But  his  last  question  had  suddenly  recalled  to 
Jack  Cody  the  reason  why  he  was  n't  at  that 
moment  one  of  the  dancing  black  figures  on  the 
hill.  The  boy  looked  from  his  mother's  wrap 
per  to  the  man's  face,  growing  more  distinct 
now,  out  on  the  door-step,  and  the  amused  ex 
pression  he  saw  there  his  sore  egotism  attrib 
uted  to  a  personal  cause.  So  he  promptly 
slammed  the  door  in  the  man's  face. 

There  was  an  instant's  pause  out  in  the  black 
ness,  made  denser  now  that  the  candle's  light 
from  the  cabin  was  cut  off;  then  a  short,  non 
plussed  laugh. 

"Miles,  old  chap,"  the  young  man  was  say 
ing  to  himself,  as  he  turned  cautiously  to  jump 
from  the  stoop  and  mount  the  hill,  "this  is 
Bedlam  you  've  fallen  into— this  mad  little 
mining-town  ten  thousand  miles  off  in  a  brand- 
new  corner  of  the  world,  all  hills  and  charac 
ters  !  Now,  what  might  be  the  sex  of  that  ani 
mal  you  were  talking  to  ?  And  what  in  the  name 
of  peace  are  these  Madigans?  Are  they  the 
ones  you  're  look—  Steps,  as  I  value  my  im- 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  337 

mortal  soul!"  he  exclaimed,  rubbing  his  shin 
where  he  had  struck  against  the  wandering 
Madigan  stairway.  "It  would  not  have  sur 
prised  me,  now,  if  I  had  had  to  climb  that  hill 
on  my  hands  and  knees,  and  stand  on  my  head 
when  I  got  to  the  door,  to  knock  at  it  with  my 
heels!" 

Miss  Madigan 's  demeanor  was  beautiful  to  see. 
Just  a  bit— oh,  the  least  bit  of  I-told-you-so  in 
her  manner,  but  also  a  generous  willingness  to 
postpone  the  acceptance  of  apologies  due  to  one 
long  misunderstood,  and  to  take  for  granted 
the  family 's  obligation. 

' '  The  estate  must  be  worth  at  least  ten  thou 
sand  a  year,"  she  confided  in  her  delighted  per 
turbation  to  Frances,  as  she  curled  her  hair. 
And  Frank  looked  up  at  her,  soulful  and  un 
comprehending,  and  a  bit  cross-eyed,  for  the 
curl  dangling  down  over  her  nose.  "He  '11 
marry  Kate,  of  course— I  had  no  idea  he  was  so 
young.  He  '11  just  be  the  savior  of  the  whole 
family.  It  's  a  providence,— Miles  Madigan 's 
dying  when  he  did,— and  wasn't  it  fortunate 
that  Nora  sent  my  letter  back !  .  .  .  You  will  be 
good  at  the  table,  Frances,  and  show  cousin 
Miles  how  nicely  you  can  use  your  fork?  .  .  . 
He  is  practically  a  cousin.  .  .  .  Have  you 
washed  your  hands?" 


338  THE  MADIGANS 

1 '  Hm-mm, ' '  murmured  Frank,  menda 
ciously.  And  then,  as  Aunt  Anne  appeared  to 
doubt  her  word,  "Just  you  ask  God  if  I 
have  n't,"  she  suggested  solemnly,  carefully 
putting  her  hands  behind  her. 

But  Miss  Madigan  had  no  time  to  put  ques 
tions  to  so  distant  an  authority.  She  had  Wong 
to  placate— Wong  with  his  wash-day  face  on, 
grim,  ill-tempered,  hurried,  defying  the  world 
to  put  even  the  smallest  additional  burden  on 
his  shoulders  on  Monday.  And  Miles  Morgan 
just  arrived  from  Ireland! 

And  Francis  talking  to  him  in  the  library, 
in  that  distant,  watchful,  uncompromising  way 
of  his,  that  was  just  as  likely  as  not  to  send  the 
young  man  off  in  a  huff. 

' '  One  need  n  't  insult  a  man  just  because  he  's 
rich  and  a  relative !"  Miss  Madigan 's  excla 
mation  was  uttered  aloud  unconsciously,  so  ex 
cited  was  she.  It  ended  with  a  gasp,  as  Sissy 
collided  with  her  on  the  way  from  peeking 
through  the  half-open  library  door  at  her  father 
and  his  guest. 

It  was  the  bedroom,  Kate's  and  Irene's,  that 
Sissy  was  bound  for ;  for  there,  in  solemn  con 
clave,  the  junior  Madigans  were  assembled, 
waiting  for  their  scout's  report. 

' '  He  's  big— but  not  so  big  as  the  Avalanche, ' ' 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  339 

she  began  the  moment  she  had  shut  the  door 
behind  her  and  faced  the  questioning  eyes  that 
commanded  her  to  stand  and  deliver.  "He  's 
straight,  too,  but  not  so  poker-stiff  as  Mrs. 
Ramrod.  He  's  got  a  big  haw-haw  voice,  and 
scrubs  every  word  he  says  with  a  tooth-brush 
before  he  says  it.  His  hands  are  as  white— 
as  white;  and  they  're  cleaner  than  Crosby 
Pemberton's.  He  9s  got  a  tan  shirt  on,  plaited 
in  front,  and  every  time  Aunt  Anne  moves  he  's 
up  like  a  jumping- jack  till  she  gets  sat  down 
again.  He  says  '  My  word ! '  and  '  in  the  States ' 
—like  that.  He  's  got  a  mustache  the  color  of 
your  hair,  Split,  a  scrubby,  stiffy  little  mus 
tache.  His  eyes  are  little  twinkling  things,  and 
I  believe—"  she  paused  in  her  indictment  to 
give  the  criminal  the  benefit  of  the  doubt— "I 
do  believe  he  had  gloves  on  when  he  first  came ! 
I  won 't  be  sure ;  but,  anyway,  I  hate  him. ' ' 

A  gratified  sigh  rose  from  the  Madigans  as 
sembled.  It  was  good  to  have  definite  informa 
tion,  to  know  that  this  Miles  Morgan  was  hata- 
ble.  For  the  Madigans  loved  to  hate  any  one 
who  could  put  them  under  obligations— when 
they  did  not  spend  their  very  souls  in  a  passion 
of  gratitude  to  him.  But  for  this  interloping, 
distant  relative  from  foreign  shores  they  were 
prepared.  They  were  ready  to  outrage  him, 


340  THE  MADIGANS 

to  throw  his  patronage  in  his  teeth,  if  he  dared 
offer  it,  to  out-Madigan  the  Madigans,  if  that 
were  necessary ;  to  disgust  him  and  satisfy  their 
pride,  wounded  by  the  insolence  of  his  pros 
perity.  Yes,  it  was  good  to  hear  Sissy's  frank 
declaration  of  war.  For  war  was  as  the  breath 
of  the  Madigans7  nostrils.  They  knew  them 
selves  there,  and,  though  they  might  have 
trusted  Sissy,  they  had  feared  for  a  moment 
that  her  report  might  not  be  all  they  had  hoped. 

"We  '11  show  him,"  said  Split. 

"A  patronizing,  affected  Irishman!"  snorted 
Sissy,  informally  now  that  her  official  duties 
were  ended. 

' '  He  thinks  he  '11  come  out  here  and  run  the 
whole  family, ' '  said  Fom,  aggrieved. 

"And  show4  off  how  rich  he  is,  and  turn  up 
his  nose  at  things,"  said  Bep,  "and  boss  us. 
I  'd  like  to  see  him  try  it ! " 

"And  be  shocked  at  what  we  don't  know,  and 
what  we  do  do,  and  what  we  have  n't  seen  and 
learned.  I  dare  him  just  to  say  ' abroad'  to 
me!"  cried  Kate,  with  a  flash  in  her  eye. 

A  chorus  of  groans  went  up  from  the  indig 
nant  assemblage. 

"Aunt  Anne,"  put  in  Frank,  a  bit  puzzled, 
' '  says  he  's  the  savior  of  the  f am  'ly.  What  's 


a-" 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  341 

"The  savior  of  the  family!  The  savior !" 
mocked  Sissy,  genuflecting  sarcastically.  ' '  The 
savior  of  the  family  will  have  you  sent  to  a 
convent,  Split,  'where  young  ladies  are  taught 
to  behave  properly. '  The  savior  '11  get  a  nurse 
maid  for  you,  Frank,  and  you  '11  have  to  go 
about  always  holding  her  hand  and  wearing 
socks  in  the  English  style  that  '11  show  your 
bare,  naked  legs  and — ' ' 

"I  won't!  I  won't!"  Tears  of  terror  stood 
in  Frank's  eyes. 

"The  savior  '11  put  a  stop,  Fom,  to  your— 
Kate  Madigan,  are  you  changing  your  dress  1 ' ' 
Sissy's  voice  fell  suddenly,  and  she  put  the 
question  in  a  calm,  magisterial  tone  that  sent 
every  eye  in  the  room  on  a  query  toward  the 
eldest  Madigan. 

Kate  turned  at  bay.  She  had  slipped  off  her 
waist,  and  the  red  was  flushing  her  long  throat 
and  small,  spirited  face.  "Well,  miss,  sup 
pose  I  am?"  she  demanded  hotly. 

"She  always  changes  her  dress  for  dinner, 
you  know,"  came  in  a  sarcastic  sneer  from 
Split.  "She  wants  to  show  our  dear  cousin 
how  swell  we  are.  We  all  wear  low-necked  rigs, 
and  father  has  his  swallowtail,  and— ' ' 

1  i  Shall  I  bring  you  the  curling-iron,  Kathy?" 
mocked  Sissy. 


342  THE  MADIGANS 

"Don't  you  want  a  rose  for  your  hair,  Kath 
leen  ?" 

"Or  a  ribbon  here  and  there,  as  Mrs.  Ram 
rod  says,  Kitty?  " 

"Aunt  Anne  says,"  said  Frank,  feeling  that 
this  was  some  sort  of  game  and  that  her  turn 
had  come,  "he  's  going  to  mawwy  you.  Is  he, 
Kate?" 

The  white  cashmere  with  the  red-embroidered 
rosebuds  slipped  from  Kate's  hand.  All  inno 
cent  of  malicious  intent,  Frank's  shot  had 
scored.  The  cry  of  the  Pack  that  leaped  about 
her  could  not  touch  Kate  after  this.  She  was 
frozen  in  by  maidenly  prudery,  by  childish 
self-consciousness,  by  Madigan  perversity. 
When  the  bell  rang  she  went  in  to  dinner  in  her 
old  pink  gingham,  her  head  high,  her  lips  set, 
her  eyes  unseeing. 

"She  's  got  'em,"  Sissy  whispered  to  Split. 

"Yep,  that  's  the  sulks  all  right,"  Split 
nodded. 

'  *  This  is  Kate. ' '  Miss  Madigan,  brave  in  her 
new  purple  gown  with  the  lace  collar  at  her 
throat,  shot  a  reproachful  glance  at  the  un 
adorned  young  lady  of  the  house.  ' '  Your  cou 
sin,  Miles  Morgan,  Kate." 

"How  d'  ye  do?"  Kate  said  coldly,  ignoring 
his  outstretched  hand  and  passing  on  to  her  seat, 
where  she  began  busily  to  serve  the  butter. 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  343 

The  savior  of  the  family  looked  after  her, 
interested.  Though  guilty  of  every  count  in 
Sissy 's  indictment,  he  was  not  accustomed  to 
being  overlooked  by  such  very  young  ladies. 

"And  this  is  Irene,"  said  Miss  Madigan,  a 
tremor  in  her  voice;  she,  too,  knew  now  that 
Kate  "had  'em."  "This  one  is  Cecilia;  the 
twins,  Bessie  and  Florence;  and  Frances,  the 
baby." 

The  savior  of  the  family  glanced  along  the 
line  of  five  blank  faces,  and  felt  the  perfunctory 
touch  of  five  small,  slippery  hands  with  nothing 
more  human  about  their  clasp  than  the  child 
ish  masks  above  them. 

"I  say,  how  do  you  tell  one  another  apart!" 
he  asked,  with  a  sudden  gleam  in  his  eye,  as  they 
passed  him  and  slid  into  their  places. 

A  dozen  pitying  eyes  looked  coldly  at  him; 
half  a  dozen  small  mouths  curved  disdainfully. 
His  remark  seemed  to  make  them  more  than 
ever  like  mechanisms— hostile  ones. 

Miss  Madigan  dropped  the  soup-ladle  in  her 
confusion.  To  that  experienced  lady  there  was 
something  ominous  about  so  unbroken  a  union 
of  Madigans ;  she  remembered  with  sorrow  the 
few  times  any  subject  had  found  them  unani 
mous. 

But  Madigan  came  in  just  then,  took  his  seat 
at  the  head,  looked  mechanically  for  the  ban- 


344  THE  MADIGANS 

ished  dog  and  the  cat,  and  Dusie,  chirping 
madly  in  her  cage  to  attract  his  attention  to  the 
fact  of  her  cruel  and  unusual  imprisonment. 
He  cleared  his  throat  and  took  up  the  carver— 
and  immediately  Miles  Morgan  was  conscious 
of  an  unbending  of  the  small  Madigans— a  cud 
dling  together,  so  to  speak,  and  a  swift  inter 
change  of  impressions. 

"You  have  n't  given  me  an  opportunity  to 
explain,  Miss  Madigan— "  he  began,  in  the 
pause  during  which  Madigan  carved  strenu 
ously. 

' '  '  Aunt  Anne, '  if  you  please,  my  dear  boy, ' ' 
urged  Miss  Madigan,  warmly.  "The  relation 
ship  's  distant,  but  now  that  you  are  with  us 
we  can  have  no  ceremony  out  here  in  the  wilds. ' ' 

"Oh,  thank  you."  The  savior,  turning  to 
ward  her,  saw  the  fattest  little  Madigan  nudge 
her  red-haire •'  neighbor  savagely.  She  was 
evidently  angry  at  something.  "It  's  good  of 
you  to  take  me  in  like  this.  What  I  want  to 
say  is  that  the  train  was  late  crawling  crookedly 
up  and  around  the  mountains.  I  had  no  idea 
of  arriving  in  the  evening  and  coming  in  upon 
you  this  way.  But  when  I  got  here,  the  town 
looked  so  savage,  don't  you  know,  so — drear — 
and  desolate  and— and  flimsy,  I  got  a  bit  home 
sick—there!  The  thought  of  all  you  people, 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  345 

my  own  people,  housed  somewhere  in  the  sprad 
dling  town,  called  to  me.  I  positively  could  n't 
wait  till  morning.  You  '11  forgive  me— Aunt 
Anne!" 

A  suppressed  gurgle  came  from  a  blonde 
Madigan  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  choking 
over  her  soup  at  this  endearment.  A  brunette 
just  her  height  spoke  rapidly  to  her  and  per 
suasively,  but  to  no  avail.  Alarming  sounds 
came  from  the  victim  till  presently  a  very  digni 
fied,  small  fat  person  rose  from  her  seat,  made 
her  way  to  the  nearly  suffocated  blonde,  gave 
her  a  thump  between  the  shoulder-blades  that 
brought  tears  of  another  variety  to  the  suffer 
er's  eyes,  and  walked  composedly  back  to  her 
seat. 

"How  can  you  be  so  rough,  Sissy!"  Aunt 
Anne  exclaimed  in  an  agitated  voice. 

"Ah— Sissy!"  The  savior  leaned  forward, 
looking  across  with  a  smile  in  his  eye  that  might 
have  melted  any  heart  save  so  savage  a  Madi 
gan  's.  ' '  So  you  are  Sissy. ' ' 

' l  My  name, ' '  said  that  young  person,  meeting 
his  smiling  eye  coldly,  "is  Cecilia." 

"But  your  friends  call  you  Sissy?" 

"Yes,  my  friends  do,"  admitted  the  perfec 
tionist,  with  an  accent  that  was  supposed  to  be 
crushing. 


346  THE    MADIGANS 

"And  you  sign  yourself  so  in  your  letters? " 
he  went  on  pleasantly. 

"My  letters!" 

"Yes;  your  informal  little  notes,  you  know." 

Sissy  laid  down  her  spoon.  A  sudden  dis 
taste  for  eating,  for  living,  for  breathing  had 
come  upon  her.  She  had  forgotten  her  post 
script  to  that  unhappy  letter ;  it  was  all  so  long 
ago,  and  Aunt  Anne's  letters  never  had  had 
a  sequel!  But  before  her  now  the  savior's 
head'  seemed  to  bob  up  and  down  sickeningly, 
while  a  voice  cried  in  her  ears  so  loud  she  fan 
cied  the  whole  table  must  hear  it : 

"You — whoever  you  are— need  n't  bother  to  an 
swer  this.  None  of  us  Madigans  wants  your  help 
or  annybody  else's.  It  's  only  that  Aunt  Anne  's  got 
the  scribbles,  and  we  '11  thank  you  to  mind  your 
own  business. 

"Sissy  Madigan." 

The  savior  threw  back  his  head  in  a  quite 
boyish  way  and  laughed  aloud  as  he  watched 
her  face. 

A  cold  rage  seized  Sissy.  To  be  laughed  at 
before  the  whole  table!  She  hated  him;  she 
knew  she  hated  him ! 

"I  don't  understand, "  said  Madigan,  feeling 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  347 

called  upon  to  say  something  that  was  not  vitu 
perative  at  his  own  dinner-table.  "You  could 
never  have  seen  a  note  of  Sissy's,  Mr.  Mor 
gan?" 

"Never."    The  savior  lied  like  a  gentleman. 

But  he  was  mistaken  if  he  supposed  that  he 
had  placated  Cecilia.  She  would  not  even  meet 
his  eyes,  those  eyes  that  twinkled  so  enjoyingly. 

The  savior  tried  Irene. 

"You  and  I  have  hair  the  same  color,"  he 
said  genially.  "I  hope  your  temper  is  n't  like 
mine,  too." 

"I  hope  not,"  she  answered  stiffly. 

He  laughed  again,  that  big,  amused  laugh. 
Split's  eyes  shot  fire.  Evidently  the  Madi- 
gans  were  funnier  than  they  knew. 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  he  said,  "would  that  be 
a  compliment  or  a  confession?" 

' i  Irene  is  trying  and  succeeding  better  every 
day  in  gaining  self-control,"  interposed  Aunt 
Anne,  with  hasty  amiability.  To  discuss 
Irene's  temper  in  committee  of  the  whole,  like 
that— the  temerity  of  the  man!  "Won't  you 
have  some  more  mutton ? ' '  she  pressed.  "It  's 
wash-day,  you  know,  and  it  's  just  a  pick-up  din 
ner;  but  we  're  so  glad  to  have  you,  if  you  '11 
use-" 
The  apology  's  due  from  me,  you  know," 


348  THE  MADIGANS 

lie  interrupted.  "And  the  good  fortune  's 
mine,  too.  Fancy  me  dining  the  evening  of  my 
arrival  at  that  brick  barn  they  call  the  hotel 
down  yonder !  It  will  be  hard  enough  when  I 
really  have  to  live  there. ' ' 

"You  do  not  surely  expect—"  began  Madi 
gan,  pausing  over  his  strawberries. 

"To  live  'out  West'?  Will  you  let  me  tell 
you  how  it  happened,  Mr.  Madigan?  There 
is  n't  much  to  it— just  this:  Miles  Madigan,  as 
you  know— do  you  know?— was  not  the  man 
to  leave  much  behind  him.  Not  that  he  'd  delib 
erately  wrong  a  fellow,  poor  old  chap,  but- 
well— oh,  you  understand!  Well,  when  his  so 
licitors  got  through  subtracting  and  dividing 
and  subdividing,  the  heir— one  Miles  Morgan, 
bred  to  do  nothing,  and  with  a  talent  for  that 
profession,  I  must  admit — found  himself  poor, 
with  just  enough  to  live  on.  The  ten  thousand 
a  year  had— just  slipped  through  Miles  Madi 
gan  's  fingers." 

"Oh!"  Miss  Madigan 's  voice  was  sympa 
thizing,  disappointed. 

"Then"— it  was  Frank's  clear  treble;  she 
had  n't  understood  much,  but  she  knew  what 
' '  poor ' '  meant :  a  Madigan  learned  that  early— 
"then  you  're  not  going  to  mawwy  Kate?" 

Kate  went  white,  while  Miss  Madigan 's  deli- 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  349 

cate  face  flushed  purple,  and  Split  pinched 
Sissy's  arm,  in  her  excitement,  till  that  young 
woman  cried  aloud. 

"Frances— outside !"  stormed  Madigan. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Madigan— please !"  deprecated  the 
savior,  holding  out  his  arms  to  the  whimper 
ing  Frances,  who  jumped  into  them  as  to  a 
refuge.  < i  No,  little  girl, ' '  he  said,  bending  down 
to  reassure  her,  "I  'm  going  to  marry  Sissy; 
that  '&  why  I  came  out  here." 

A  gasp  of  relief  parted  Kate's  trembling  lips. 
She  was  very  near  being  fond  of  the  detested 
savior  in  that  moment,  in  her  gratitude  to  him 
for  not  having  looked  at  her. 

But  oh,  the  disdain  of  Sissy !  It  was  such  a 
very  poor  joke,  in  her  opinion.  Her  round 
little  face  with  its  dots  for  features  looked  so 
sour  and  supercilious,  as  she  passed  the  savior 
with  averted  eyes  on  her  way  out  of  the  din 
ing-room,— the  children  were  withdrawing  now, 
-that  he  could  not  resist  putting  out  a  hand 
to  stop  her. 

"You  will  have  me,  Sissy?"  he  begged  with 
a  laugh.  "Think  of  a  man  coming  clear  out 
here  with  so  little  encouragement  as  I  had. 
Such  devotion  might  appeal  to  a  heart  of 
stone ! ' ' 

His  enemy  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  the  red 

OA 


350  THE  MADIGANS 

slowly  mounting  to  the  smoothed-back  brown 
hair. 

' '  Sissy  's  Number  One  in  her  class, ' '  ventured 
Frank,  as  a  recommendation. 

"I  'm  not!"  flamed  forth  Sissy.  "I  never 
was>  or— or  if  I  was  it  was  because  of— of- 

"Why,  Sissy!"  interjected  Miss  Madigan, 
grieved. 

"Of  a  mistake  of  some  sort,"  suggested  the 
savior,  soothingly.  "Well,  I  suppose  I  could 
marry  a  girl  that  was  only  Number  Two." 

"I  'm  never  Number  Two— never!  I  'm 
Number — Twenty ! ' '  Sissy 's  eyes  were  raised 
for  a  moment  to  his— a  revelation  of  the  in 
sulted  dignity  seething  within  her. 

"Oh,  well,  a  Number  Twenty  wife  is  good 
enough;  but  we  'd  have  to  live  in  Ireland,  I 
suppose,"  said  the  savior,  philosophically. 

A  passion  of  wrath  at  his  dullness  filled  the 
clever  Sissy,  and  she  sought  for  a  moment 
before  she  found  the  weapon  to  hurt  him. 

"In  Ireland,  you  know,"  she  said,  as  deliber 
ately  as  she  could  for  fear  of  breaking  into  tears 
before  she  had  delivered  the  insult,  "the  pigs 
live  in  the  parlor,  and— and  the  children  have 
no  place  to  sleep  and— go  barefooted!" 

"Oh!"  The  savior  was  stunned  for  an  in 
stant,  but  he  recovered.  "No,  I  did  n't  know. 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  351 

But  in  Nevada,  I  'm  told,  the  Indians  eat  Irish 
men  alive,  and  those  that  are  left  are  shot  down 
by  white  desperados  on  C  Street  every  day 
just  at  noon!  We  could  n't  live  here,  could 
we?" 

Sissy  gasped.  She  opened  her  lips  as  if  to 
speak,  but  closed  them  again,  and  suddenly,  in 
the  instant's  pause,  there  came  an  irresistible 
giggle  from  Split,  already  out  in  the  hall. 

Sissy's  hands  flew  to  her  breast.  She  shook 
off  her  suitor's  detaining  hand  and  bolted. 

"I  could  n't  help  it,"  the  savior  said  to 
Madigan,  who  was  looking  at  him  with  that  per 
plexed  frown  which  the  manifestation  of  his 
children 's  eccentricities  so  often  brought  to  his 
face.  "She  is  delightful.  What  jolly  times 
we  '11  have  getting  acquainted !  How  fortunate 
you  are,  Mr.  Madigan,  to  have  these—" 

Madigan  threw  up  his  head,  a  challenge  in 
his  eye.  Was  he  even  to  be  congratulated  upon 
his  misfortunes? 

"I  always  said,"  the  savior  went  on,  with  a 
chuckle,— "in  fact,  I  began  to  say  it  before  I 
got  into  knickerbockers,— that  I  intended  to  be 
the  father  of  a  family  numbering  at  least  a 
*  baker 's  dozzen. '  I  believe  I  had  a  vague  notion 
that  by  means  of  superabundance  of  paternity 
I  could  atone  to  myself  for  my  lack  of  other 


352  THE  MADIGANS 

family  ties.  I  was  always  so  beastly  alone. 
Yet  no  one— Miles  Madigan  least  of  all— saw 
the  pathos  of  my  lot.  'He  's  young  and  unen 
cumbered,  '  he  said  of  me  toward  the  last  when 
he  was  reminded  of  how  little  he  had  left  for 
me.  'He  '11  get  along.  Besides,  there  's  that 
wildcat  mine  out  in  the  States;  I  'm  leaving 
him  that/  " 

Madigan 's  pipe  fell  to  the  floor;  he  had  been 
filling  it  for  his  after-dinner  smoke.  * '  You  Ve 
got  the  Tomboy ! "  he  exclaimed. 

' '  That  interests  you  1 ' '  Morgan  asked. 

Kate,  who  picked  up  the  pipe  and  handed  it 
to  her  father,  as  she  passed,  the  last  of  the  line 
of  young  Madigans  on  the  way  out,  saw  how 
Francis  Madigan 's  hand  shook.  Mechanically 
she  paused  and  listened. 

"I— I  was  swindled  out  of  my  share  of  that 
mine, ' '  he  said  harshly.  ' '  Miles  Madigan  knew 
that  in  fairnecs  half  of  it  was  mine.  I  found 
it.  I  worked  for  it.  I  put  aside  all  other  op 
portunities  to  devote  myself  to  developing  it. 
I  sacrificed  my  children  and  my  business  to  it. 
I  gave  up  the  best  years  of  my  life  to  it.  I  bore 
disappointment  and  poverty  because  of  it.  I 
was  at  the  end  of  my  tether  when  Miles  Madi 
gan  went  into  it  with  me ;  and  yet  when  I  saw  he 
was  bent  on  freezing  me  out  of  it,  I— I—  But 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  353 

after  he  got  it  he  did  n  't  know  what  to  do  with  it. 
He  left  it  to  be  worked  and  himself  fleeced  by 
strangers.  But— it  killed  my  wife,  and  left  me, 
after  all  those  years  of  litigation,  an  embittered, 
beggared,  broken  man!" 

"And  so  it  's  but  fair"— to  Kate,  shivering 
at  the  revelation  in  her  father's  voice,  Miles 
Morgan's  words  seemed  like  soothing  music— 
"it  's  but  fair  that  you  and  I  should  handle  the 
thing  together— what  there  is  of  it,  Mr.  Madi- 
gan,"  he  added  hastily,  as  Madigan  was  about 
to  speak ;  and  he  leaned  forward,  holding  out  his 
hand  boyishly.  "There  may  not  be  much,  but 
I  can  get  English  capital  to  develop  it,  at  a 
sacrifice  of  half  its  value  now,  and  its  possibili 
ties.  So  that  will  leave  only  quarter  shares  for 
each  of  us.  I  may  be  offering  you  only  a  lot  of 
work  and  a  disappointment  at  the  end.  But  the 
thing  seemed  worth  enough  to  me,  'way  over  on 
the  other  side,  to  come  out  here  and  look  into  it 
myself.  And  one  thing  that  made  it  seem  so 
was  the  desperate  battle  you  had  fought  to  keep 
it.  I  hoped— I  hoped  you  'd  like  me  well 
enough,  when  we  got  to  know  each  other,  to 
help  me  with  your  experience,  and— frankly, 
to  help  yourself  in  helping  me.  I  had  no  inten 
tion  of  saying  all  this  to-night,  but— allow  me, 
Cousin  Kate." 


354  THE  MADIGANS 

He  had  dropped  Madigan's  hand  after  a 
hearty  squeeze,  and  was  standing  holding  open 
the  door  for  Kate  to  pass. 

It  was  a  glorified  Kate,  for,  lo,  the  veil  of 
ill  humor  had  fallen ;  a  treacherous  Kate,  Sissy 
would  have  said,  for  she  shone  out  now,  warm 
and  sparkling,  upon  the  man  who  had  had  the 
discrimination  to  let  a  hrood  of  small  Madigans 
pass  without  special  attention,  yet  who  jumped 
to  his  feet  when  the  young-lady  daughter  of  the 
house  made  her  exit,  and  stood  looking  after 
her  till  Madigan  hauled  him  off  to  the  library 
to  talk  about  the  Tomboy. 

That  certain  contentment  which  followed  after 
an  unusually  good  dinner,  when  the  world  and 
the  Madigans  were  young  together,  had  in 
spired  Old  Mother  Gibson.  The  original 
couplet,  with  which  all  Madigans  are  familiar, 
is  not  strictly  quotable ;  it  was  not  invented,  but 
adopted,  by  them.  And  it  served  merely  to  give 
a  name  to  the  game,  which  was  half  a  war- 
dance,  half  a  cake-walk,  accompanied  by  chanted 
couplets  composed  by  each  performer  in  turn ; 
said  couplets  being  necessarily  original  and 
relevant  locally.  The  accompaniment— an  easy 
change  of  chords— was  played  on  the  piano 
colla  voce.  And  no  one  minded  in  the  least  a 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  355 

foot,  more  or  less,  at  the  end  of  a  verse.  The 
joke  was  the  thing  with  the  Madigans,  and  the 
impromptu  rhyme  that  brought  down  the  house 
was  the  one  that  hit  hardest. 

For  Old  Mother  Gibson  was  a  satire,  a  pas 
quinade,  a  flesh-and-blood  libel  done  in  rhyme, 
of  wildest  license  both  as  to  form  and  matter, 
and  set  to  music— to  be  discharged  full  at  the 
head  of  the  victim.  It  began  in  an  orderly 
way,  every  Madigan  in  her  turn  playing  both 
parts  of  victim  and  cartoonist.  But  it  degen 
erated  into  an  open  and  shameless  mimicry  of 
Aunt  Anne,  of  Francis  Madigan,  of  the  school 
master,  Mrs.  Ramrod,  the  Misses  Blind-Stag 
gers,  Professor  Trask,  Dr.  Murchison,  Wong, 
Indian  Jim,  and,  finally,  each  of  the  other  7s  ten- 
derest  folly— till  a  living  caricature  too  true  or 
too  cutting  precipitated  an  appeal  to  arms,  and 
the  Lighthouse,  which  was  always  in  the  way, 
was  tipped  over  in  the  melee,  and  had  to  be 
thrown  out  of  the  window,  there  to  burn  itself 
into  darkness  innocuously. 

Old  Mother  Gibson  was  given  by  a  full  cast 
the  night  of  the  savior's  arrival.  Though  Jane 
Cody  had  been  merciless,  Jack,  tempted  beyond 
his  powers  of  resistance  by  the  sounds  of  rev 
elry  upon  the  hill,  was  stalking  about  in  melan 
choly  masquerade  among  its  personnel.  Bom- 


356  THE  MADIGANS 

bey  Forrest,  her  delicate  head  looking  like  a 
surprised  sunflower  upon  its  masculine  stalk, 
had  come  in,  and  Crosby  Pemberton,  looking  as 
much  out  of  place  in  his  immaculate  linen  and 
small  Tuxedo  as  either  of  these,  was  joyous  at 
being  among  Madigans  again. 

You  might  have  heard— if  you  'd  stood  out 
on  the  piazza  looking  in,  and  happened  to  have 
the  key  to  the  riddle— a  hint  in  verse  of  every 
Madigan  escapade,  of  every  Madigan  failing, 
of  all  the  Madigan  jokes,  on  Old  Mother  Gibson 
nights.  You  would  have  seen  even  Kate— 
young-lady  Kate,  who  had  once  substituted  in  a 
school— join  in  this  mad  revel,  with  an  appetite 
for  fun  that  showed  how  much  of  a  child  she 
still  was. 

An  impressionable  young  Irishman,  who  had 
come  out  upon  the  piazza  to  smoke  a  cigar  and 
think  himself  back  into  his  usual  poise  after  a 
day  full  of  new  experiences,  had  his  attention 
attracted  by  the  strumming  on  the  piano;  and 
glancing  in  through  the  open  window,  he  saw 
a  slender,  graceful  girl,  her  dark  head  rising 
lightly  from  the  sailor  collar  of  a  pink  ging 
ham  blouse.  She  was  balancing  lightly  as  she 
walked,  keeping  time  to  the  rhythm,  and  fol 
lowed  by  a  procession  of  children  in  single  file. 
(A  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  motion  to  stimulate 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  357 

one's  power  of  improvisation  made  Old  Mo 
ther  Gibson  the  liveliest  of  games.)  And  ar 
riving  at  the  center  of  the  stage,  she  delivered 
herself  in  a  singsong  of  the  following : 

"  Old  Mother  Gibson,  be  on  your  best  behavior, 
Or  you  '11  surely  fail  to  satisfy  the  savior." 

It  did  n't  seem  a  very  funny  or  apposite 
ditty  to  Miles  Morgan,  but,  to  judge  by  its  ef 
fect  upon  those  within,  it  was  exquisitely  witty. 
The  whole  company  doubled  up  with  laughter. 
It  giggled  till  its  collective  sides  must  have 
ached;  then  it  slowly  and  gaspingly  subsided. 
When  it  had  quieted  down,  the  piano  began 
again,  and  a  red-headed  Madigan,  intoxicated 
by  the  music,  the  license  of  the  time,  and  the 
excitement  accompanying  creative  work,  danced 
a  fantastic  pas  seul,  as  she  flew  about  in  the 
Mother  Gibson  merry-go-round. 

"  Old  Mother  Gibson's  savior  was  a  dandy— 
He  thought  he  'd  buy  the  Madigans  with  a  stick 
of  candy ! " 

sang  Split,  and  the  parlor  yelled  itself  hoarse 
with  uproarious  delight. 

The  fat  little  girl  at  the  piano  began  to  play, 


358  THE  MADIGANS 

and  stopped  several  times,  that  she  might  wipe 
the  tears  of  laughter  from  her  eyes  and  get  her 
breath.  At  last,  with  a  squaring  of  her  shoul 
ders  and  a  stiffening  of  backbone  that  seemed 
queerly  familiar  to  Morgan,  watching  outside, 
she  half  drawled,  half  sang,  with  an  unmistak 
able  accent: 


"  Old  Mother  Gibson  was  angry  at  the  Fates ; 
My  word  !   They  sent  the  savior  'way  out  to 
the  States !  " 

A  sudden  enlightenment  came  to  Miles  Mor 
gan.  For  a  moment  the  red  flamed  up  in  his 
cheek,  and  if  Split  could  have  seen  his  face 
she  might  have  fancied  that  some  imp  had 
caught  her  likeness,  when  her  temper  had  got 
beyond  her  control,  and  set  it  on  this  man's 
body. 

"The  impudent  little  beggars!"  Morgan 
cried  furiously.  "My  word!"  He  stopped, 
remembering  the  use  to  which  his  favorite  ex 
clamation  had  been  put.  "But  what  a  saucy 
lot ! ' '  He  was  laughing  before  he  had  finished 
wording  his  thought. 

He  was  interested  now,  and  listened  with  a 
grin  to  Fom's  declaration  that 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  359 

"  Old  Mother  Gibson  ought  to  've  known  better 
Then  to  come  in  answer  to  Aunt  Anne's  letter." 

He  saw  even  Frank  strutting  in  the  ring, 
though  she  was  capable  only  of  a  repetition  of 
the  classic  phrase  with  which  each  couplet  be 
gan.  And  he  laughed  with  the  rest  at  Bep,— 
poor,  unready  Bep,  set  as  by  a  musical  time- 
lock  and  bound  to  go  off,— getting  slower  and 
slower  in  motion  as  well  as  utterance,  the  ac 
companiment  retarding  sympathetically  as  the 
critical  moment  approached  when  she  must  be 
delivered  of  her  rhyme. 

"  Old  Mother  Gibson,  why  do  you—" 

she  began  her  singsong.  "No,  no!  Wait.  I 
know  another.  'T  ain  't  fair, ' 9  she  stammered 
in  a  prose  parenthesis. 

"  Old  Mother  Gibson  had  a— 

"Stop  laughing,  now;  wait  a  minute.  You 
don't  give  me  a  chance,  Sissy.  You  play  faster 
for  me  than  for  anybody  else !  You  do  it  a-pur- 
pose,  too,  just  'cause  you  know  it  's  easy  to 
bluster  me. 


360  THE  MADIGANS 

"  Old  Moth-er-Gib-son-  " 

Bep  stopped  suddenly,  for  through  the  glass 
doors  came  the  subject  of  her  lay.  He  had  a 
finger  to  his  lips  as  he  glanced  at  Sissy's  back— 
a  hint  that  the  rest  of  the  company  seized  de 
lightedly.  And  when  the  music  began  again, 
he  was  not  ashamed  to  make  this  contribution: 

"  Old  Mother  Gibson,  take  pity  on  a  cousin 
Left  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  other  half-dozen  !  " 

At  first  the  accompanist,  accustomed  to  the 
rodomontade  of  voice  as  well  as  gesture  of  the 
excited  performers,  was  not  aware  of  the  in 
terloper.  When  she  finally  spun  around  and 
saw  the  savior  singing  in  the  midst  of  his  li- 
belers,  she  let  him  finish  the  couplet  unaccom 
panied,  and  sat,  a  fat,  shocked  statue  glued  to 
the  piano-stool,  staring  at  him. 

It  was  absurd  of  him,  but  there  was  some 
thing  in  Old  Mother  Gibson,  as  the  Madigans 
sang  and  played  her,  that  turned  the  soberest 
of  heads.  And  the  savior's  forte  was  not  in 
being  staid.  He  fell  upon  his  knee  before  her. 

<  <  forgive  me,  0  Sissy,  for  not  being  a  Madi- 
gan,"  he  begged,  "and  receive  me  into  the 
fold!" 


OLD  MOTHER  GIBSON  361 

She  looked  down  at  him,  self-conscious,  em 
barrassed  ;  yet  the  hidden  sentimentality  of  her 
nature  was  appealed  to  by  the  masculine  young 
face  turned  half  laughing,  half  seriously,  to  her. 

"Are  you  sure,'7  she  asked  shyly,  "that 
you  're  not  one  already  ? ' 9 

It  is  of  record  that  one  evening  during  that  sum 
mer  when  the  old  Tomboy  mine  was  reopened, 
a  young  Irishman  newly  arrived  on  the  Corn- 
stock  escorted  down  to  Fitzmeier's— where, 
everybody  knows,  there  is  ice-cream  to  be  had— 
six  girls  of  assorted  ages,  one  boy,  and  two 
young  persons  whose  garments  belied  their  sex. 
Yet  they  all  seemed  rampantly  happy  and  quite 
unashamed. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


ge.CH     MAY  20 1C 

WN  1  6  1996 


LD  2lA-40m-4,'63 
(D6471slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


33423 

GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


